Claire

by Leslie Burton Blades

THE BLIND LOVE OF A BLIND HERO

_BY A BLIND AUTHOR_

[Transcriber's Note: This novel was originally serialized in fourinstallments in All-Story Weekly magazine from October 5, 1918, toOctober 26, 1918. The original breaks in the serial have been retained, but summaries of previous events preceding the second and thirdinstallments have been moved to the end of this e-book. The Table ofContents which follows the introduction was created for this electronicedition. ]

On the editorial page of last week's ALL-STORY WEEKLY we announced a newserial by a new author. "Claire" is a story of such subtle insight, ofso compassionate an understanding of human nature, and of so honest anattack on the eternal problem of love and living, that it can wellafford to take its chances on its own merits. But _Lawrence Gordon_, theblind hero of the triangle tragedy, which runs its inevitable course inthe mountain cabin of _Philip Ortez_, takes on a new interest, when welearn that his creator is himself a blind man. 

Born of mining people in Colorado, Blades lost two fingers and the sightof both eyes when as a lad of nine years he refused to take the dare ofsome playmates and set off a giant firecracker. While still a youth heentered the Colorado State School for the Blind. Here he spent sixyears. In the crash at Creede, when the bottom fell out of so manymining fortunes, the Blades family lost their all. Then young Bladestook up the burden of his own keep. For two successful years hemaintained himself at the University of Colorado by teaching music. Whenthe family moved to Oregon, the indomitable Leslie followed. At Eugenehe entered the State University and continued to support himself bymusic and lectures. After receiving his degrees of B. A. And M. A. He wasa substitute teacher in the English Department. 

For some time he has made his home at San Dimas, where his regularcontributions on a variety of themes to the magazine section of _TheExpress_ have brought him something more than local prestige. He isdeeply interested in the drama, and has several plays to his credit. "When He Came Home, " a play of his dealing with the return of a blindsoldier from the war, has become a favorite with one of the Californiacircuits. 

"Claire" is his first novel, and though he is still on the sunny side ofthirty, this arresting story is a promising portent of what we mayexpect from the powerful pen of this blind man with an artist'svision. --THE EDITOR. 

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I. DISASTER. 256II. THE WATER OF LIFE. 260III. THE WAY OF THE PRIMITIVE. 262IV. MUTUAL DISLIKE. 266V. THE FACE OF DEATH. 269VI. THE STONE THREAT. 274VII. PLAYING WITH FIRE. 498VIII. THE TIGHTENING NET. 501IX. CLAIRE'S ABASEMENT. 505X. HOW SIMPLE THE SOLUTION! 509XI. THE MAKING OF A KNIGHT ERRANT. 513XII. THE UNHORSING OF A KNIGHT ERRANT. 697XIII. FAINT HEART AND FAIR LADY. 702XIV. PHILIP TO THE RESCUE. 706XV. UTTER EXHAUSTION. 711XVI. THE QUESTION ANSWERED. 714XVII. ANGLES OF A TRIANGLE. 151XVIII. THE ROMANTIC REALIST. 155XIX. THE LAST DISCUSSION. 160XX. THE LAW OF LIFE. 164XXI. INTO THE SUNLIGHT. 168

CHAPTER I. 

DISASTER. 

In the confusion Lawrence stood still. Over the howling wind andsmashing sea, he heard thin voices shouting orders. Another mass ofwater swept over the deck. Near him a woman screamed piteously. Instinctively, the masculine desire to protect womanhood made him acheto help her, but he bit his lip and clung to the rail. If he could onlysee! Never before in his five years of blindness had he felt the fullhorror of it. He had taught himself to forget his loss of sight. It isuseless to waste time in sentimental moping, he would say, but now--

"God, when will it end?" he muttered savagely. 

The City of Panama lurched back and forth like a rocking-horse. Somewhere forward they must be lowering the boats. He stumbled along thedeck, holding to the rail for support. The spray dashed in his face, andhe could feel the water from his hair trickling into his ears. He shookhis head and laughed grimly, but he could not hear his own laughter. Theterrific noise of the wind drowned everything else. It becameincreasingly difficult to keep his hold on the rail. He was wet to thewaist. Each time the wave struck him higher, and he noticed that thelurching grew heavier. He was strong, six feet of hard muscle, but thewater was stronger. His mouth was filled with it, and his ears seemedbursting. His rugged features twisted into hard lines. As he struggledforward, he raged at the blindness that kept him from seeing. 

"Not a chance, not a chance, " he repeated over and over, as he strainedto hold the deck. There was a lull in the wind, and he marveled at theabsence of human sound. Suddenly he divined the cause. His mind became achaos of rage and fear. 

"They have left me, " he cried; "left me without a thought. " He shut histeeth hard, then ducked as another heavy beating weight of water crashedover him. It seemed it would never lift and leave him free to breathe. His arms and feet no longer seemed a part of him. He wondered if thevessel were under the surface, and nerved himself to let go. But hecould not. The rail was his only hope of life. Slowly the water began todraw his fingers away from it. The next surge sent his bodyout--somewhere. He struck forward with both hands and kicked his feetmechanically. Was it the roar of the wind or the weight of the wateritself that beat into his ears? The sudden pain in his lungs, told himthat he had reached the surface. How good the air felt! Shaking thewater out of his ears, he listened. Nothing but the wind was audible. 

It seemed to him that he had been swimming for hours in the icy waves. Events on the ship, the shock of the boiler explosion, the rush for thedeck, all seemed to have happened long ago. 

"If I could only see, " he thought, "I might find the ship again. " Itoccurred to him that he might be swimming in a circle, and he resolvedto keep in one direction, but how? He remembered that he had alwaystended to swim to the left, so he increased his right-arm stroke. Suddenly a heavy timber struck him. He gasped with pain, and sank underthe surface. When he came up, his hand struck the same piece of wood. With a desperate effort, he dragged himself up on it, twisting his armsand legs about it to maintain his hold. 

The water, swirled by the wind, lashed him as he lay on the timber. "Land may be within sight, " he thought, "and I shall never know. " Hisfear and the cold began to work upon his imagination. He had a clearmental picture of a sandy beach backed with trees. He felt sure he wasbeing carried past it into the open sea. 

Hours passed. He began to rave at the water, at life, at everything. Mixed, tangled masses of images heaped themselves in utter disorder inhis brain: passages of verse, bits of his trained laboratory jargon, phrases from half-forgotten books, the delicate curves of the WaterSprite at the exposition, and, above all, a fierce gnawing pain in hisside. 

Over the roar of the wind he heard something else. Was it the tumblingof breakers? He listened, then concluded that it was his imagination. But they came nearer, louder; he sat up on his plank, his nerves tense. The board lurched sidewise, spurn around, and the swell it was ridingbroke over him with a force that knocked him from his position. Over andover he rolled, until, almost unconscious, he felt his body draggingalong the sand. The undertow was pulling at him. He fought furiously, digging his hands into the sand, and clawing desperately up the steepsloping beach. The next breaker caught him and rolled him past thewater-line. He scrambled to his feet, and ran shakily ahead, neitherknowing nor caring what was before him. 

Behind him he heard the water sweeping in. He was out of its reach, butstill he ran. A rock caught him above the knees and sent him headlonginto the sand. He became unconscious, and lay still, half doubled up. 

When he recovered consciousness and sat up, a fierce sun was beatingdown upon him. His head ached, and he was hungry. "There may be peoplewithin call, " he thought. Rising unsteadily, the soreness of his musclescoming home to him, he gave a prolonged "Hello-o. " A faint echo was hisanswer. He formed a trumpet of his hands and shouted louder. The echocame back stronger. "Only cliffs, " he concluded. 

The gnaw of hunger increased. "Clams are my best chance, " he reasoned, and, turning, he groped his way to the water. When the incoming breakerswashed his knees, he stopped. The intense dread that his experience hadgiven him was crying retreat, but he stood his ground. Stooping over, hebegan digging in the sand. His cut and bleeding hands burned with thesalt water, but he dug steadily, moving rapidly along the beach. At lasthis fingers turned up a round, ridged object. Feeling the edge of it heknew that he had found what he sought. He wanted to eat the clam atonce, but reluctantly dropped it into his pocket, and went on digging. 

When he had filled his pocket he straightened up and started toward theshore. As he waded through the last shallow wash of the wave, his footcaught in something soft, and he fell. He rose, and then on secondthought stooped to feel what had tripped him. His hand touched a mass ofwet, tangled hair. He jerked it back hurriedly and screamed. The strainhe had been under was telling. Nerving himself, he reached again, andtouched a face. 

"A woman! Another human being! Thank God!"

Then he clutched his throat in desperation. She might be dead. Hestooped and dragged the body up on the sand. He was afraid to find outif she were dead or alive, and sat beside her, timidly touching herhair. 

"Fool!" he muttered at last. "If she is not dead, she soon will be. " Heleaned over, listening for her breathing. At first there was only thesound of the waves, then he heard her breathing come faintly. He tookoff his coat, emptied out the clams, and dipped it in the ocean. Comingback, he wrung it out over her face. He knelt beside her, and rubbed herarms and throat. 

His hands were his trained observers. As he worked over her, they gavehim a detailed picture which sank deep into his memory. She wassplendidly made. His fingers caught the delicate curve of her throat andshoulders. Her skin was satin to his touch. He knew that the fine hair, the smooth skin, the curve and grace of her body belonged to a beautifulwoman. 

Taking her arms, he worked them vigorously. When he was beginning todespair, she coughed, moaned a little, and turned over on her side. 

He wondered if she had her eyes open. He dared not feel to see, and satsilent, anxious, waiting for her to speak. 

It seemed to him that eternity passed before she murmured, "Oh, oh!Where am I?"

"I do thank God, " he exclaimed earnestly. 

"Where am I?" she repeated as she sat up. 

"I do not know, " he answered. "Presumably somewhere on the coast ofChile. " Her eyes opened very wide and gazed at him as she said, "Are wethe only ones?"

"I cannot tell, " he replied, smiling a little. "I am blind, you see. "

"Yes, I know, " she said softly. "I saw you on shipboard. "

"The first consciousness I had of you, " he continued, "was when Istumbled over you while getting my breakfast. "

"Breakfast? Where is it?"

He laid one hand on the pile of clams. She looked down at them, andburst out laughing, uncontrollably. 

"It is not much, " he said, "but we primitive people are simple in ourneeds. I worked to get them, goodness knows. "

She was looking around her, twisting her long brown hair in her hands. At last she shuddered. "It's desperately lonely. Nothing but sea andmountains. I'm afraid I can't walk, " she said. 

"Good God!" he exclaimed. "Can't walk?"

She turned toward him, smiling faintly. "I was struck when I washedoverboard, and my ankle, I think, is broken. I am sorry, " she added. 

Her tone was slightly apologetic, and he laughed nervously. "Oh, that'sall right, " he said, assuringly, then stammered, "I mean--" Hehesitated, and she laughed. 

"I mean that we can get along, " he continued, stubbornly. "Heaven knowsI am sorry. But you can't realize what it means to have some one nearyou who can see. "

She did not answer for a minute, then said quietly: "Shall we breakfastbefore beginning anything else?"

He reached in his pocket for his penknife. It was gone. The blankexpression of disgust on his face made her ask: "What is it?"

"My knife, " he said. "It is gone. "

They sat opposite each other, the clams between them. Each followed adifferent trend of ideas. He was raging at this last mishap, andconsidering means of opening the clams. She was conjecturing over thefate of the City of Panama and wondering what she could do, alone herewith this blind man. Her night-gown and a heavy skirt had been all shehad worn when she had rushed on deck in the night. She looked around herat the rocks and thought how foolish she had been to leave her shoes. 

At last he rose and began to grope back along the beach. 

Noticing that his hands were torn and bleeding, she said, hastily:"Don't do that. What are you looking for, anyway?"

"Stones, " he answered, stopping. 

"I will direct you, " she to him. "Left--right--a little ahead now. "Guided by her, he moved until his hand touched a small stone. He foundtwo of them and came back to her side. 

She watched him while he tried to break a clam-shell between the tworocks. "Let me, " she said, taking hold of one of them. "Your hands aretoo badly cut. " He hesitated. 

"Please, " she said. "I can at least do the woman's part and prepare themeal. Especially when you bring it to me. "

He laughed and gave up the stones. 

"I am desperately thirsty, " she said, breaking open the shells. 

"I feel as though my tongue were swelling fast, " he admitted. 

They dug the tiny clams from the shells, and ate for a few minutes insilence, then she said: "I can't go any more of them. "

He wondered if she were not hungry, but said nothing. After eating a fewmore, he understood. Then he, too, stopped. 

"I've got to find water, " he said. He waited for her to speak. 

At last she said: "I can see nothing that might indicate fresh water. Where will you go?"

"Up the beach, I suppose. "

"There are mountains up the beach, and back of us, too. You could neverfind your way out. " Her tone was despairing. 

"True, " he admitted. 

There was a long pause. Then she said slowly: "It seems to be your onlyhope, doesn't it? Well, I guess you had better go. God bless you!" sheconcluded as though it were her last word. 

Suddenly it occurred to him that he had been thinking and talking ofhimself alone. The idea of parting from this woman who could see, whomit seemed to him he had found as his own means of salvation, immediatelybecame impossible. 

"I am going to take you with me, " he stated quietly. 

"You forget, " she said, "I cannot walk. "

He had forgotten it for the moment. Now it filled him with new terror. He laid his hand on hers. "I can't help it, " he said finally, "I can'tleave you. I will carry you. "

"Oh, no!" Her protest was genuine. 

He felt her fear that she would hamper him. "Don't be foolish, " he saidas though he had known her for years, "I am not being gallant. This isnot a time for gallantry. I am simply being sensible. You can't sithere, can you?"

"I can't help myself, can I? I can't walk. "

"I can help it, " he retorted. 

"It would simply make your chance of escape impossible, " she argued. "Itis preposterous. Why should you? Your life is worth to you as much asmine is to me. I know what that means. I would not stay here if I couldhelp it. I would not sacrifice my life for yours. Neither shall yousacrifice yours for mine. "

"See here, " he demanded, "who are you and where did you get thatattitude toward life?"

It was one he knew. It was the hard, relentless theory of the struggleof animal survival which his thinking in college had led him to accept. There was in it no touch of duty, no sense of obligation, and verylittle pity. He had called himself a hard materialist, and had neverlived up to his theory. Now here beside him in this outlandishsituation was a woman quietly arguing his own philosophy of life to himagainst herself. 

She laughed. "It's my way of thinking, and I mean it, " she said, twisting her hair up on her head. "I got it out of four years of thoughtand reading in a college, and I do not thank the college for it. I findit very inconvenient, but it is my belief. I have tried to live by it. "

"So is it mine, " he said, "and I mean to live by it. "

"Very well, " she answered. "That aggressive tone against me is notnecessary. Go ahead and get through if you can. Good-by, my friend. "

"I'm afraid you do not understand, " he answered her steadily. "I want tolive. To do it, you are necessary to me. I need your eyes. Very well, whether you like it or not, you are going with me. "

He rose quickly, and stretched his muscles. His head ached, his wholebeing cried for water. He knew he could not carry her far, but withouther he was powerless. 

"Suppose, " she suggested, her eyes flashing from hazel to deep-brown, "suppose you do take me. Have you any assurance that my eyes will serveyou rightly?"

"Your own life, which is pleasant to you, will depend upon your eyesserving me rightly, " he said coldly, as he stooped over her. 

She laid a restraining hand on his arm. "And in the long days that wemay have to go on together, what will you do in return for my eyes?"

"Carry you, " he answered. 

"Very well, but there are two things you must know, " she said quietly. "First, that I am married; second, that I am quite as steadfast in mybelief as I said. If you make one single attempt to establish more thana frank comradeship, based on mutual support in our unforeseenpartnership, my eyes will serve you falsely. "

He laughed a little as he picked her up. She gasped with pain. 

"I can't help hurting you, " he said gently. 

"It's all right, " she answered, putting her arm around his neck so thathe might the more easily bear her. "We are off on our great adventure. The halt and the blind! Such a mad pair!"

He smiled, and started slowly up the beach. 

"I shall have to develop a system of one word guides, " she mused. 

"Left--right--slow--ahead--all right--and so on, " he admitted. 

Suddenly she laughed out merrily. "My friend, a stranger pilgrimage theworld never knew. What is your name?"

"Lawrence, " he said. 

"Mine, " she answered, "is Claire. Go a little to the left. "

He turned slightly, and plodded through the sand. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE WATER OF LIFE. 

Still exhausted from his recent battle with the waves, Lawrence was notin the best condition for this new struggle. Before he had gone far, hewas forced to rest. He lowered Claire to the ground carefully anddropped beside her. His effort in carrying her had made him breathehard, the sun was beating down on them, and his throat was dry andparched. Speaking was becoming difficult. 

"If we don't find water soon, we're ended, " he managed to say. 

"I'm afraid we are, " she admitted. "Do you know, Lawrence, you shouldn'ttry to carry me. I weigh over a hundred and thirty pounds. That is toomuch for any man. Without me, you might make it, even though youcouldn't travel so steadily ahead. "

"Perhaps, " he agreed. "I've thought of that. But, you see, I would haveto feel my way. At best I'd get a lot of falls. I might walk off aprecipice. That doesn't appeal to me, now that I've set myself towinning. "

"And yet you are almost certain to wear yourself out to no purpose ifyou carry me, " she repeated. "If you could do it and get me through, I'dnever stop you. I've a husband in America who loves me, and I want toget back to him, but you aren't equal to it. I see no advantage indying a mile or ten miles inland. For one's grave, this is as good aplace as any. "

She spoke of dying in a matter-of-fact way that made him feel strange, though he thought of it in exactly the same way himself. He believedthat he was a mere animal and that death was a mere cessation of energy. "I wonder if she feels just as I do about it, " he pondered. "Perhapsnot. But it can't matter anyway. Here we are, and death does seem fairlycertain. "

He was breathing more regularly now, though his throat burned and histongue stuck to his mouth disagreeably. 

"We'd better be moving, " he said, rising with an effort. 

"As you please, " she assented. 

Then, as he lifted her: "My ankle is swollen dreadfully. If we couldfind water, I'd bathe it and put a stick splint on it. "

He did not answer. Silence fell between them while he plodded ahead. They started up the mountainside, and the way became increasinglydifficult. There was a dense undergrowth through which he was compelledto shove his feet. There were rocks which she could not see, down whichhe was constantly slipping. Her directions barely kept him from bumpinginto the trees that grew closer and closer together. Occasionally shepushed a branch aside from before him, and laughed as he stooped to passunder, throwing her forward so that she had to cling to his neck to keepher position. 

On and on he forced his way, his teeth clenched, his breath broken bythe strain. She made herself as easy to carry as she could, but beyondthat she showed no sign of sympathy. Again and again he was obliged tostop and put her down while he rested. His head was throbbingfrightfully. He gave up trying to talk. 

During one of their frequent rests she had asked him quietly, her eyesfilled with a soft, calculative haze: "How much are you good for, Lawrence?"

He had answered: "Till we find water. " She had laughed a little at that, and it had sounded unpleasant to him. 

Now she said again: "You don't face facts, do you?" He made no answer. 

She continued: "It's strange how we humans are always so overdetermined. One ought to know by the time he is grown that he is a puppet in thehands of circumstance. Now I go on hoping that you can carry me out tolife and my husband, and you plod determinedly on as if you were reallyable to do it. Of course, you may, but it is entirely dependent uponoutside things. "

He was too tired to answer, even to think. Besides, that was exactly hisview of the situation. 

"You see, " she went on, "here we are, two distinct groups of livingcells, each loving life and wanting it. Our pasts have been verydifferent, our futures would have been; but here we are. I am resentful, because you are blind, because you are not stronger, because I cannotwalk. You are probably resenting the same things. Perhaps you resent mysaying what I do. You want me to reassure you and to promise success. IfI did, you would know in your real mind that I was lying to you for thesake of getting you to do more. Yet both of us would feel happier if Icould do it. I can't. "

He stood up and took her in his arms without a word. 

"We are going a few yards farther, " she laughed. "Well, if ever anyanimal deserved life, you do. "

He bit his lip and climbed on up the hill. In his mind he was sayingover and over: "Just a mere intellect, nothing more. That's all she is. "Yet in his arms she felt very feminine. The sense of her body so closeto him seemed strangely out of keeping with her talk. 

He remembered a few other women of her type; he wondered what the end oftheir daily association would be. Then gradually his thinking ceased tobe clear. His thirst more and more wove itself into his consciousnessuntil his mind was a blurred fantasmagoria, in which, repeating itselfover and over in the midst of strange ideas, would come the flashingsound of unattainable water. He did not talk, he did not think. Throughthe trees he wound his way with the grim determination of a beastfighting against death. 

The sun passed its zenith and sank slowly. It grew cooler in the forestthrough which he lurched, but he was hardly aware of it. Claire, too, was rapidly losing control over herself. She had ceased to talk, save toutter dull, monosyllabic commands to him. The pain from her ankle andher own thirst were blending into a dizzying maze of torture. 

As darkness settled over the forest, she grew afraid. Ordinarily itwould have been a delight to her, here among the trees, but now theshadowing night filled her with ideas of horror. She forgot hertheories, and clung to him so that he was the more hampered. She grewafraid lest he should drop her, lest he should give up the fight, andwith that came an overwhelming desire to urge him on. She thought ofwild tales that she might tell to spur his faltering strength. At firstshe resisted, then as her desire for life grew within her, she began tolie to him. "It isn't far, just a little way to water, " she whispered. 

He struggled unsteadily forward. They had passed the top of the ridgeand were descending the other side. He was scarcely aware of his ownmotion. He did not hear her directions, and stumbled against the trees. When her ankle struck a bough, she realized in a flash of pain that hewas not listening to her. Then she felt him sinking down. 

Gripping his shoulder, she shouted: "Go on! Water ahead!" He heard her, his mouth opened, and he gathered himself up to stumble a few stepsfarther through the darkness. They seemed to be deep in a wooded ravine. He staggered again and fell. 

She was thrown violently forward, and flung out a hand to save herself. As she lay there, half-dazed, suddenly she felt her fingers grow coldand wet. Water! A small stream, no larger than that from a hydrant, wastrickling over the rock. 

Dragging herself to it, she drank greedily. She dipped her hands in it. She laughed joyously and splashed. For a few minutes she played like achild. Then she remembered Lawrence. 

Lifting her hands full of water, she threw it on his face. His mouth wasopen, and a few drops fell upon his black tongue. She threw anotherhandful, then took her skirt and, wetting it, wrung it into his mouth. He twisted over on his side and muttered: "Water. "

She gave him more, and as he sat up, she said eagerly: "Here, Lawrence, here. "

Taking his hand, she pulled him toward the stream. He drank ravenously, plunging his face and hands into the little line of water, making queernoises over it. 

Claire began to grow cold, and her ankle pained her till she shook likea fevered person. He turned and sat up. 

"You cold?" he managed to mutter. 

She wanted to say "No, " but her will was worn out. "Yes, " she answered, "very cold. "

He laughed a little guttural laugh as he drew off his coat. "Take it, "he said, dropping it near her hand. 

She took the coat and drew it on. Lawrence was drinking again from thestream. She listened to him for a time, as she lay there in thedarkness, then gradually her suffering and the strain under which shehad been, won the victory over her consciousness, and she heard no more. 

He lay where he was, half unconscious. At last he began to feel thechill of the place and drew himself up toward Claire. She did not move. "We've got to do the best we can, " he thought, and moved close to her sothat their bodies might warm each other. 

CHAPTER III. 

THE WAY OF THE PRIMITIVE. 

Claire was the first to wake. She sat up and gazed around her. Themorning sun was just breaking through a heavy fog that had drifted infrom the ocean. Her clothes were damp, and she was chilled through, while her swollen and discolored ankle throbbed with steady pain. Shelooked down at the sleeping man beside her, and her forehead gathered ina little thoughtful frown. Then she looked around her again. Despite theknowledge of their desperate situation, she could not help noticing thebeauty of the scene. 

Great trees grew in massive profusion all about them. Heavy tropicalmoss hung from the branches and trailed its green mat over the stones. Birds were beginning to sing, their notes breaking the silence of theplace in sharp thrills. Then she studied her companion. Finally, shelaughed aloud. 

"Lawrence, " she said gaily. 

He turned and sat up, yawning drowsily. "What is it?" he demanded. 

"We are certainly the primitive pair. "

"H-m, I suppose. Anyhow, I feel better for my sleep. "

"It's beastly cold, " returned Claire, "and my ankle is playing fits andjerks with me. "

"We'll have to do something about it, " he said earnestly. She did notanswer. 

"We can bind it up, I presume, " he went on. "But it's a frightfulinconvenience. "

"Admitted, " she said quickly. "It can't be helped, however. "

"I'm very much for a fire, " he suggested, as though he had not noticedthe hints of hardness in her voice. 

"Some twenty feet ahead is a flat rock. We might build one there. Haveyou matches?"

He shook his head. "We'll have to go it primeval. "

"But I don't see how, " she began. 

"Never mind, " he answered, with a malicious grin. "I do know some fewthings. "

"Perhaps you also know how to find food when there isn't any, " sheretorted. 

He rose without replying. 

"Well, " she continued, "I see plenty of roots and stuff. We may as wellprepare to eat them. It's unbelievable that I should be here, and withyou. It's a horrible nightmare, this being stranded and lame out heresomewhere with a blind man. "

He winced, but answered quietly: "I'm not especially charmed myself. Icould prefer other things. "

She looked at him and smiled. "Don't ever let me repeat thosesentiments, " she said, simply. "I'm sorry. Of course you aren't toblame, and I shouldn't have said that. "

He stepped forward timidly. "Will you suggest the best means of findingdry wood?" he asked, as though the matter were forgotten. 

She pursed her lips and looked around her. "This moss seems to be feetdeep, " she said at last. "You might dig up some that is dry, and withthat as a starter you can add twigs. "

He stopped and began to tear away the moss. His hands were stiff, but heworked rapidly and before long he had a heap of the brown, dry stufffrom underneath. 

She watched him silently. When he stopped, she said: "Straight to yourleft is the rock. Get the fire started. Then you can move the invalid. "

He took the moss and felt his way to the rock, which was eight or tenfeet square and practically flat, standing up almost a foot from theground. 

"Now, for a dry stick or two, " he said, cheerily. 

She directed him, and at last he found what he thought would do. Thenbegan the age-old procedure of twisting a pointed stick between one'shands, the point resting on another piece of wood, until frictionbrought a flame. It was a long, hard experiment; several times hestopped to rest; but the consciousness of the skeptical expression heknew to be on her face sent him quickly back again to his task. At lastthe moss began to burn. True, it smoked much and flamed little, but hegathered twigs from the shrubs near by and in time had a good fire. Thenhe carried Claire to the rock and set her down beside it. She leaned herelbow on the edge and said, happily: "It's quite a success, Lawrence. Ireally feel as though we were progressing. "

"Our woodcraft will doubtless improve with experience, " he answered. 

"Next, I guess we had better bathe your ankle, " he observed, as thoughgiving due care to the order of procedure. 

"Very well, " she replied. 

At her suggestion he gathered moss and wet it in the tiny stream. Shewound it about her ankle and held it tightly. 

"Now the surgeon orders splints and bandages, " she said. 

He brought several sticks, and with a strip which she tore from thelining of his coat, she bound them fast. 

"There, " she said, sighing, for the pain was wearing. "That ought tohelp. I wonder what our distant grandparents did in such cases. "

"Made the best of it, " he said cheerfully. "Many of them died, Isuppose. "

"And we are back again at their game. Whether we can outwit the masterstrategist and survive, is at least interesting to try. "

"In any event, we'll have to eat to do it, " he said shortly. 

She studied the greenery about her, meditatively. "It's probable thatmost any of these things are edible, but are they nourishing?"

"We'll try them. Which shall I get?" he asked. 

"I hate to start in on roots or leaves. If we only had some berries!"

He got up determinedly. "I'll go down the ravine and hunt. If I getmixed in directions, I'll shout. "

She watched him go, and when he had disappeared through the trees shefelt strangely sadder and very much alone. She fell to wondering if hewere really so necessary to her. Sooner or later would come theinevitable problem between them. Would he fall in love with her, andwould she, in the days that they might be alone together, find hiscompanionship growing into any really vital proportion in her life? Thatshe, Claire Barkley, rich and independent, whose life had been selfishto a marked degree and who had never considered anything except from thepoint of view of vigor, perfection, or beauty, should ever love a blindman was incredible. 

"No, " she thought, "not even the closest of daily relationships with himcould ever make me really care. He is not of my life. " She wondered howmuch she would sacrifice for him if it were necessary in theirpilgrimage toward civilization, and she answered herself, frankly: "Nomore than I must to maintain a balance in our forced businesspartnership. " She knew that was all this meant to her. 

From down the ravine she heard him shouting lustily, and she answered, her clear, rich voice waking pleasant echoes as she called. She waitedfor some time before he came. In his arms he carried a bundle ofbranches loaded with red berries, while in one hand was a clump of largemushrooms. 

Claire watched him as he approached, and was surprised at the ease withwhich he walked. There was less hesitation in his stride than she hadthought, and he came briskly through the trees, dodging as though byinstinct. 

When he reached the rock, it was characteristic of her that she said:"You came through those trees remarkably well. "

He laughed. "I have an uncanny way of feeling things on my face beforethey touch me. I experimented somewhat with it in the laboratory atcollege. It's a sort of tropism, perhaps, such as bugs have, thatenables them to keep between two planks or that turns plant-roots towardthe sun. Anyway, I've brought some breakfast. These berries may be good, and these other things may be toadstools. I brought them along. "

"How does one tell?" she asked. 

"Oh, mushrooms are pink underneath and ribbed like a fan. "

She examined them and said they might be mushrooms, they looked it. Hesat down again, but not until he had replenished the fire. 

"They may be poison, both of them, " he hazarded. "That's our sportingchance. Will you try them?"

Claire took some of the berries and ate them. "I don't feel anythingyet, " she announced after a minute's solemn munching. 

"Oh, you probably won't for several hours anyway, " he said lightly. Thenhe continued: "If we could devise a way, we might heat water and cookthe mushrooms. Then, too, I've been thinking we might even catch abird. "

"Neither sounds very simple. "

"Nothing in life is simple, " he replied. "At home, in America, where weleave food-getting to the farmer, dress from a store, and go to heavenby way of a minister, things are fairly well arranged, but here wearen't even sure of salvation unless we mind the business of thinking. "He continued after a pause. "Of course, I don't especially remember thatI counted on heaven. It always seemed a bit distant in the face ofliving and working. Perhaps, however, you counted it as vital. "

"I was fairly occupied with more immediate things, " she answered. "However, that is a different world from this. What we did then can'tespecially matter to us here. This is our place of business, so tospeak, and social life doesn't factor. "

"I see. " He accepted the snub thoughtfully. "But this business of ourswill grow exceedingly irksome without talk. I doubt if we can find themeans of escape an all-sufficient topic. "

"We haven't boiled our water yet, " she said. "And the bird is still freeto roam. "

He did not carry on his line of thought aloud. If she had known what wasgoing on in his mind, she might have been angered. He was wondering justhow much thinking she was capable of. Certain that she was beautiful, hehad scarcely allowed that to occupy him. His experience had led him toestimate people almost wholly by their ability to be open-minded. In hisstruggle against blindness, he had concluded that open minds were rareindeed, and persons who limited his freedom of action or tended to babyhim he had grown to dismiss with a shrug. Claire did not belong to thatclass. "She has shown remarkable willingness to let me go my own pace, "he thought, "but is this due to her mind or to mere indifference?" Hedecided at last that the relationship would be tiresome for both ofthem, and that she was not especially eager to prevent it from being so. This conclusion led him to adopt a definite attitude toward her. Shecould do as she pleased; he, for his part, would treat her simply as anuninteresting person, a machine that furnished the eyes which he coulduse in his travel to liberty. 

He recalled how, when he had been displeased with convention, he hadthought of life in the wild as the best possible means of liberty, andhe laughed. 

Claire looked up. "What is there amusing just now?"

"Myself, and you. "

"Why, pray, am I amusing?" Then she was sorry she had said it. 

"Because you are you. "

"And are you other than yourself?" she asked scornfully. 

"Not at all, but my own particular interests seem infinitely moreimportant to me than there is any possibility of yours doing. "

"You mean to say that you are an egotist. "

"Frankly, I am, " he agreed. "One is an egotist, I suppose, when he findshimself and his needs and whims essentially worth while. I'll admit Ifind mine so. Perhaps you feel the same about yours. One scarcely knowswhere egotism and vanity meet or end in a woman. " He smiled, for hemeant that to provoke, and it did. 

Claire's voice was edged when she replied. "A very penetrating remark. With men generally, vanity seems to be a widely extended cloak to spreadover all things in a woman that they cannot dispose of in any other way. If I find you dull, or if I am not struck with your ability, or if youdo not seem to me sufficiently fascinating, I am possessed of femininevanity. "

"Precisely. And why not? If I choose to regard myself as all thosethings which you deny, why shouldn't I find the fault in you rather thanin myself?"

"Because it may be in you, " suggested Claire. 

"It may, but that doesn't alter the case. I quite agree that you areright, but none the less you are at fault, because I, Lawrence, am themost important of all things to me. "

She did not answer. The conversation seemed to her useless. She saw noreason for arguing the matter, and she half suspected that he was simplyteasing her. Besides, she could not but feel that to sit here in hiscoat and discuss egotism was a trifle ridiculous. He was merely tryingto establish a friendship in talk which she did not care to encourage. That was her conclusion. 

As he rose to gather more sticks, he asked: "Do you happen to see a rockthat flattens to an edge?"

Told where he might find one, he brought it and struck it hard againsttheir boulder. It did not break. "It may do, " he said thoughtfully, andbegan to grind it against the side of the other rock. He worked steadilyand long, and the result was a fairly good edge, which was nicked andtoothed, but still an edge. He laid it down with a sigh of contentment. 

"My first tool, " he commented. 

CHAPTER IV. 

MUTUAL DISLIKE. 

All day Lawrence worked, and when night came he had hollowed out a pieceof log to a depth of some eighteen inches, leaving six inches of solidwood in the bottom. Both were very well pleased with the result. Withthe coming of darkness, he gathered more berries, and heated water inhis log kettle. They were able to cook the mushrooms and to bind herankle in moss soaked in hot water. The building of a shelter wasdiscussed, but both decided to resume their journey on the followingday, so they slept again in the heavy moss. 

In the morning, Claire was glad indeed of the hot water, for it warmedher, and her ankle felt much better. They decided to follow the littlestream which would doubtless wind its way somehow around the presentridge back to the ocean. Accordingly, they kept down the ravine, whichcut across the ridge in a southerly direction. 

For the whole of that day and the next they followed the stream, whichgrew to a small creek. At noon of the third day they dropped suddenlydown a steep slope to find themselves at the juncture of their stream, with a river which flowed through a deep gorge out to the ocean. Theydetermined to follow it up toward its head. 

"Somewhere inland must be a town, " argued Claire. "At any rate, it's theonly way we can go. "

After living for four days on berries, they were beginning to feelacutely the need of other food, but they discussed the problem at lengthwithout arriving at any feasible solution. Two days later fortunetemporarily relieved their difficulty. 

They were following along the side of a steep ridge overlooking theriver, when Claire suddenly stopped him and gave a cry of delight. Nearthem a small, furry animal, caught in a tangled mass of wirelikecreepers, was struggling to free itself. He killed the creature with hisstone-edged tool, and after barbecuing it on the end of a stick, theyate it ravenously. Each of them would have disliked the whole scene atany other time, but now neither thought anything of it until after theywere satisfied. 

Leaning back against a rock, Lawrence stroked his chin, rapidly becominginvisible under a heavy beard. "I hadn't known I was so hungry for realfood, " he laughed. 

Brown as a gipsy, her hair filled with tiny green leaves, Claire lookedat him, her eyes shining with the warm light of satisfied hunger. "Weate like two beasts, " she remarked languidly, and laughed. "It wassimply disgraceful. "

"I know, " he began to muse, "it doesn't take long for the most polishedman--not that I ever was that--to become a savage. "

"You look the part, " she laughed. "I suppose I do, too. My hair ismatted hopelessly; the curliness makes it worse. My face, too, israpidly hardening under this sun. If only I had a few more clothes--"She stopped and looked at him. "I feel the need of them, " she finishedlamely. 

Claire had worn his coat continuously from the first night, and hisundershirt was tearing from contact with bush and tree. He grinnedcontentedly, however. 

"If you approach nakedness as rapidly as I, " he chuckled, "I fear weboth will have to avoid civilization. Undisguised humanity isn'ttolerated there. "

She flushed warmly, then laughed. 

"I wonder why people are so afraid of being seen, " Lawrence went on. "Ofcourse, there's the warmth and natural protection of clothing, but onewould feel so much freer without the encumbrance of shirt-stud andfeathered plume. "

"We need them to complete a personality, " said Claire. "I know fewpeople who would inspire respect in their elemental state. Stripped ofadvertising silk and diamond, they wouldn't be so suggestive ofwealth. "

"But why be so eager to impress others with your power?"

She turned toward him with a faint smile. "If you didn't ask that asmere conversation, I would think you childish. You know very well why. It probably goes back to the days when the possession of a fish-hook, more or less, meant surer life. It has come to mean, now, that thedecoration of an extra feather or white flannel trousers meansadvantageous position, the place of more power, more pleasure; in short, greater fulness of living. "

"But we are living fully, goodness knows, " he interrupted. "This lastweek we have had to exert our wits and bodies in more ways than we everdid before in all our lives. True, I do miss my modeling somewhat. " Hespoke the last with a soft mellowness in his voice and a wistfulnessthat made her look at him quickly. 

"Modeling?" she asked. 

He nodded slowly. 

"What sort of modeling?" she insisted. 

"Oh, probably poor, for the most part. I did some work that wasbeginning to make its way, though. "

"You mean sculpture?"

He nodded again. 

She looked at him earnestly. Here was a new revelation. She had wonderedat this man's apparent keen sense of form, and his imaginative powerwhen he spoke of color or mentioned line, and she had been sure from hisoccasional word that he was a wide student of literature. 

"What did you do at home?" she asked abruptly. 

"Oh, played with living, " he said indifferently. 

She felt irritated that he would not tell her more of his life, yet sheremembered that she had practically refused to discuss her own with him. 

"See here, Lawrence, " she said suddenly, "we aren't quite fair with eachother, are we?"

"Why not?" he answered quietly. "I carry you toward your old life, youguide me toward mine. It's a fair business, with equal investment. I'mnot complaining. "

She was silent and watched him as he lay on his back, dreaming of daysat home with his work. As he lay there, she studied his hands. Theywere practically healed, and she noticed they were well-shaped, thefingers long and tapering, yet with an appearance of unusual strength. She knew already that they were sensitive; when he had cut out a pieceof wood to heat water in, she had seen that. So they were sculptor'shands. What a revelation, and what a pity that he was blind! She fell towondering if he really was good at his work, or whether he merelyfancied he was and hewed away without real artistry, deceived by hisblindness. She studied his face in repose. Then her mind came back tohis hands, and she felt a sudden sense of displeasure, a little chagrin, and some wonder, accompanied by the feeling that she wished he had notcarried her. She did not quite know why, yet the dependence on him madeher restless. Suddenly she wondered poignantly what he thought of her. The more she wondered, the more she wanted to know, and at last sheventured, "Are you asleep?"

"No, dreaming. "

"Lawrence. "

"What is it?" He sat up and waited. 

"What do you think of me?" She was surprised to find herself waitingeagerly for his answer. 

He laughed outright, a gay, hearty laugh. 

"Claire, " he said merrily, "you embarrass me dreadfully. You see, Ihaven't thought much about you. However, if you like, I'll study you fora week and report. "

Hot anger surged up in her. "You needn't bother, " she said dryly. "Ourlives are so utterly different in every phase that nothing could begained. "

He lay back carelessly. "So I had decided, " he replied, and lapsed intosilence again. 

She could have cried with vexation. For the first time in her lifeClaire was utterly humiliated, and there grew within her an aggressivedislike for this man, a determination to make him feel her power and topunish him for his indifference. She did not want him to love her, byany means, but he had never even shown her the courteous deference, theadmiration or regard that she was accustomed to receive from men. Hermind went back over the past week, and she grew more humiliated, moreangry. Tears of vexation came to her eyes, but she brushed them awayfiercely. 

"Shall we take the remains of our meat and move on toward the habitatsof men?" said Lawrence, sitting up. 

She controlled herself to answer, "As you please. "

He stooped to lift her into his arms. She flushed warm as his handsslipped under her, and he straightened up. She hesitated, and wanted notto do it, but realized the necessity, and put her arm around his neck. 

"I shall be grateful when I can walk, " was her comment. 

"It will make our progress more rapid, " he agreed, and she was angryagain. She knew that he thought only in terms of the most efficientmeans of getting ahead. A longing possessed her to make him realize thathe was physically distasteful to her. 

"We are so vastly different, " she said, "it is disagreeable to becarried this way. "

Lawrence flushed, and she was pleased. At least he understood now. 

"Of course, " he admitted calmly, "it isn't pleasant, but I suppose onemust make the best of a bad bargain. "

There was silence for a while, then he said suddenly, "I think Irealize, Claire, that a blind man is at best a poor companion for awoman who is accustomed to being amused, and whose interests are thoseof the society glow-worm. "

Claire resented the picture, but she kept her voice steady. "Surely athome you had your own social group, " she said pleasantly. 

"Of a sort, yes. We were all workers, not going in much for form, entertainment, and that sort of thing. We generally sat in the galleryat the opera, and did mostly as we pleased everywhere. None of us wererolling in wealth. We worked for the love of it, and looked to thefuture for pay. "

"I see. " She was thinking fast. "You were struggling young artists. " Hervoice was sugar-coated. 

"We were struggling young artizans, " he answered, seemingly indifferentto her irony. 

As he made slower progress when he talked, she did not attempt to carryon the conversation. The stops for rest were gradually lengthening out, and he was getting hard and wiry so that his endurance was greater. Hewas quicker at catching himself when he stumbled, and he did not puff sohard between grades. Claire felt the easier swing of his body when hewalked, and noticed that he was growing surer of foot and more gracefulin movement, and she realized that except for his eyes he was a splendidspecimen of manhood. She now admitted all these things to herself, butthey only added to her feeling against him. She wondered if he had beenas indifferent to all women as he was to her, and was displeased thatshe wondered. 

Suddenly Lawrence stopped and put her down by his side. Claire looked upat him and saw his forehead gathering in a frown. 

"What is it?" she asked anxiously. 

"You are letting your thoughts obstruct your eyes, " he said simply. "Ihave walked into three boulders without your knowing it. "

"I am sorry, " she said earnestly. "It was silly of me. "

He laughed and sat down. "You see, as eyes you can't afford to think. Atother times perhaps I, too, should wander into abstractions, but atpresent it won't work. "

"I know it, " she admitted contritely. "I won't repeat it. "

"What, " he asked, "is the subject of all this meditation?"

She blushed, and her eyes darkened. She wondered whether she should tellthe truth, started to do so, then changed her mind. "I was asking myselfwhat my husband was probably doing and thinking. "

"Poor fellow!" Lawrence was sincerely thoughtful. "I can imagine what itmust be to him, supposing you lost at sea. Yes, he must be sufferingbadly. I don't believe I would change places with him. "

Claire started at Lawrence. "Are you flattering me?" she asked coldly. 

"Not at all, " he replied. "I am merely stating the truth. I have animagination, my dear lady. I can quite grasp your husband's position. You would certainly be a loss to a man who loved you, and I shouldn'tcare to be that man. "

"Shouldn't you?" she said instinctively, and bit her lip for saying it. 

"Not under the circumstances, " answered Lawrence. "I never did fancy theidea of death visiting my loved ones. I have never got over its havingdone so. "

"Oh"--her voice softened--"then you have lost your--" She waited. 

"I am an orphan, " he said bruskly. 

She was ashamed of her relief. How ridiculous it was to have imaginedhim, even for an instant, as a married man! He was so cold, soimpersonal; of course, he had never married, and never would. Well, thatwas best; a blind man had no right to marry. He owed it to himself andto any woman not to place her in the position of caring for him, handicapped as he was, and so unable to give her the companionship, thecomradeship a woman deserved. She could see how he would treat a wife:feed her well, clothe her, care for her comfort, and talk to her if shedesired, but he would never be tender, loving, sympathetic, orunderstanding. No, he could not be; he was too self-centered, too muchthe artist. That last seemed to her a correct estimate of him, and shesettled her mind on it as being final. 

"So you are alone in the world?" Claire said, renewing the conversation. 

"Quite, " answered Lawrence. "I am as free from family hindrances as ayoung wolf that runs his first season's hunt alone. "

She thought how apt a comparison he had made. "So you regard the familyas a hindrance?"

"Oh--no and yes. One can never do quite as he pleases while a family andits wishes, aims, and loves are concerned. They always hold him down tosome extent. He is an equal hindrance to them. They love each other, andas a result they have to sacrifice their individual wishes. But thefamily keeps man more social, more gregarious, and less selfish. If wewere as free from family love as is the wolf I mentioned, we would beable to live our lives more completely, and, on the other hand, we woulddie in greater numbers. The love of man and woman for each other andtheir children lifts humanity out of its serfdom, but it also placeslimitations. You ought to know more about that than I, however, " helaughed. "I merely theorize. "

"So I noticed, " Claire observed. "One can easily gather that you aren'texperienced. "

"No. My parents died when I was small. I had to work my way throughschool. The accident made it somewhat harder, but I got along. " He wasplainly matter of fact. 

"Oh!" She exclaimed at his words more forcefully than she had intended. 

He smiled a little, comprehendingly. "Yes, it explains a lot, doesn'tit?" He spoke carelessly. "You doubtless can now understand my lack ofsocial grace. "

She thought to deny it, but that seemed foolish. He was silent, andthere seemed little use in talking. Claire knew she understood him wellenough. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE FACE OF DEATH. 

In the days that followed they talked but little. Lawrence had falleninto the habit of speaking only when she seemed to desire conversation, and his mind was occupied with planning their escape. If he thought ofher in any other way than merely as his eyes, he never showed it. Thoughwatchful of her comfort, in every act and word, he was markedlyimpersonal. 

Following the river, they had progressed steadily north and east overincreasingly higher and rougher ground. The tropical vegetation ofintertwining crimson was now changing to a faint gold. There were dayswhen they were forced to make long détours over broken ridges to getaround some deep gorge through which the gray-green stream dashed itsfoamy way downward. They were well into the mountains, and above themthe higher Andes raised their snowy peaks in forbidding austerity. Itwas daily growing colder, and their clothes were now only ragged strips. Then came days when sharp, biting winds whipped through the cañon theyfollowed, or headed against them on some plateau, and they were forcedto face new issues. Food was less plentiful, and winter was at hand. Tobe sure they were in the tropics, but on the mountains the air was cold, and warmer clothes became imperative. 

Claire's ankle was almost well. After weeks of pain, which she had bornebravely, it was healing, and the time was near when she would be able towalk. Shoes were absolutely essential for her. Furthermore, Lawrence'sown shoes were worn through, and his walking was becoming a continualpain. In spite of Claire's increasingly careful guidance, he stepped onsmall, sharp rocks that dug into his flesh. He did not complain, butClaire knew that he was suffering. The times when he stepped out freelybecame more and more seldom, and his face was usually taut. 

They were, indeed, a pitiable couple. Lawrence's thin face was shaggywith hair. Claire's once soft skin was now brown and hard. Both werethin and wiry, with the gaunt lines of the undernourished showingplainly. 

One morning, to fight the frost that bit into them, they were forced tobuild a fire long before dawn. As they sat huddled together over it, Lawrence finally broached the subject that had been engrossing boththeir minds for days. 

"Claire, " he said thoughtfully, "we can't make it through. We'll have tofind a place somewhere and prepare for winter. It's tough, but it'sinevitable. I hate to give up now, but it will be even worse for us ifwe don't get meat, fur, and a house against the snow that will soon becovering everything. "

"I know, " she said sadly, her thin hands supporting her chin. "It seemsas though we had played our long farce to its end. Death is asinexorable in its demands as life. " The circles under her eyes weregreat half-moons. 

"We have done well, though, " he argued. "We've done better than well. Who would have believed that a blind man and a crippled woman could havecome as far as this?"

"I didn't believe it, Lawrence, " she said, and her voice and eyes werefull of a warmth that had grown of late to be fairly constant. "Ididn't believe it, and I wouldn't believe it now if I were told thestory back home. "

"I'm not sure; I might have, " Lawrence said proudly. "I know the blindand their capabilities. "

"I'm learning to know them, " she admitted, and lapsed into silence. 

"Shall we go into camp, then, " he asked, as if they had not mentionedanything else. 

Claire hesitated, then said slowly: "It's our only chance. Are youwilling to spend a winter with me?" Her eyes glanced amusedly at him. 

Catching the note in her voice, Lawrence laughed. "It seems inevitable, "he said, "and, anyway, I couldn't ask for a better companion. You don'tdisturb me, and I don't irritate you--that is, not especially. "

She looked at him impatiently. "Don't you?" she said, meditatively. "Well, I'm glad I don't bother you. "

"Yes, " he assented seriously. "You've been mighty open-minded, Claire, and you haven't hampered me with incredulities. "

"Oh, that is what you mean. "

He moved uneasily, his muscles drawing a little. Claire saw andwondered. 

"Yes, " Lawrence said shortly. "When morning comes, we'll hunt for alocation. "

They ceased speaking, each occupied with his own thoughts. 

Claire was asking herself what the winter would mean to her, spent withthis silent man, and he was questioning how long she would continue toregard him as a mere imperfect carrier, devoid of the stuff that men aremade of. Sometimes when her body was in his arms, he had wondered if shewas capable of love, but always he had remembered her husband, hersocial life, her assumption of superior reserve, and had forced himselfinto a habitual attitude of indifference. The strain was telling on hiswill, however, and often he longed to make this woman see him as he was. He thought of the old days in his studio when he had proved himselfmaster of blindness in his power to imagine and carry the sense of forminto the carved stone. He recalled the praise of his comrades, and overall else there surged in him the swift, warm blood of the artist. 

"Lawrence, " said Claire suddenly, "at what do you value human life?"

"That depends, " he answered, "on whose life it is. "

"Well, at what would you value mine?" she demanded. 

"From varying points of view, at varying prices. From your husband'spoint of view, it is invaluable. From your own, it is worth more thananything else. From my point of view, it is worth as much as my own, since without you mine ceases. "

"Then your care of me and all your trouble is merely because you valueyour own life. "

"What else?" He moved uneasily. 

She ignored that question. "If you could get through without me, wouldyou do it?"

"That depends on circumstances. If I could get through without you, anddo it quickly, and could not get through with you"--he paused--"I shouldleave you behind. "

"And suppose, when I can walk, I do that myself?"

He smiled. "As you please, " he said quietly. "I advise you to make yourestimate well, however. My hands and strength are assets which you mighthave trouble in doing without. "

"And do you estimate the whole of our relationship on a carefullyitemized basis of material gain and loss?"

"Claire, isn't that your understanding, stated by yourself, of ourpartnership?"

"Yes, but--well, it's hard to estimate human companionship. "

"I know it. " He shifted nearer the fire. "I've tried to estimate yours. "

"Indeed?" Her voice was full of interest. 

"I've failed. You are worth a great deal, potentially. "

"Exactly what do you mean?"

"I mean just this"--he stood up suddenly and faced her, his shadowcovering her like an ominous cloud--"that as Mrs. Claire Barkley you areworth nothing to me except eyes, and, therefore, your personality andconversation are of value only as time-fillers. "

"Go on, " she said steadily. 

"But as Claire, the almost starved, ragged human being who is livingwith me through a prolonged war with death, you are worth everything tome--everything that I value. "

"But isn't that what I have been from the beginning?" she flashed. 

He answered slowly. "Yes--in a way. "

Once more they lapsed into silence. In turn she tried to estimate hisworth to her, but failed. She began to recall the men she knew, andconcluded that she was without a standard of measurement. One by one shepictured them and cast them aside, as somehow not the scale by which toevaluate this man. At last, she began to think of her husband. It hadnot occurred to her to think of him in comparison with Lawrence before, and it made her wonder at her doing so now. 

She fell to dreaming of the man who had been her lover in girlhood, andher husband and dear companion these past six years. He was surely athome, aching, yearning for the little girl he had lost. She could seehim sitting before the fireplace in their big living-room, his head onhis hands, his tired face in repose, while he gazed into the flames andlonged and longed for her. The picture grew in clearness. She saw thejoy that would be his when they met again, and she felt around her thosedear arms, crushing her against him in a rapture of reunion. In suddencontrast, she was again conscious of the cold, impersonal arms of theman beside her. As she thought of the difference she hated Lawrencewildly. At least, her husband knew her worth. He knew her goldentreasure-house of love; he knew her as she was. 

This blind man before her there, unkempt, hard, expressionless, what didhe know of her? What could he know, born of poor people, and working hisway among inferiors? She almost laughed aloud. Why, at home this man, who had carried her in his arms, would have been one of her wards, anobject of her charities. But would he? Lawrence was an artist. Sheconsidered that. 

"Isn't it light enough to get moving, Claire?" His rich, warm tonesbroke in upon her thought like a shattering cataract. How musical andvibrant his voice was!

"I think so. " She stood up unsteadily. 

"Good. We'd better go down nearer the river. We will want a shelteredravine for our winter camp. "

"Very well. " She threw her arm over his shoulder. "It isn't far down, and it's clear going. When we start again, I'll be able to walk. Andthen I'll lead you, Mr. Lawrence. " She spoke half in jest. 

"And if we are alive, I shall make it possible for you to do socomfortably. I hope for something to make shoes of. " He answered with afrank, sincere joy at her being able to walk, and she was ashamed of heranger. He was not to blame for being anxious to have her well, to havefelt otherwise would certainly have been to be a fool indeed. She shouldrejoice with him, for then they could get home that much sooner, home toher husband and her old life. She warmed at the idea, and felt a senseof gratitude toward Lawrence that was good and wholesome. "I have beensilly, " she thought. "He is really not to be expected to fall and adoreme, and certainly I ought not to blame him for being blind. He couldn'thelp that, either. "

"Lawrence, " she said aloud, "I am a beastly unjust wretch. "

"I don't see it, " he protested. 

"But you ought to see it. I don't play fair with you. "

"You said that once before, I believe. I don't agree any more now that Idid then. "

"But I think all sorts of beastly things. " She could not understand herfrankness. 

"Oh"--he paused. "So do I. But as I am not a Puritan, I scarcely holdmyself responsible to you for my thoughts. One's thoughts are his own, and, as long as he keeps them to himself, he is entitled to as many ashe pleases, of whatever variety he prefers. "

"Do you think so?"

"Of course, and so do you. "

"Yes, I did--but it seemed to me, " she faltered, "that in the presentcase--oh, well, let it go. " She laughed nervously, and said no more. 

Lawrence wondered at her silence, and wanted to know very much what shethought, but he told himself that after all it was none of hisbusiness. 

They had reached the river. The water rushed from the mouth of a gorgein rapids that sent its every drop sparkling and flashing over a greatrock into a mass of white foam below. 

"Oh, " cried Claire, "it's beautiful, beautiful!"

He put her down and laughed. "It sounds as if it were leaping frompoints of light into cloud-banked foam. "

She stared at him in amazement. "It is, " she said in a subdued tone. "How did you know?"

"One learns, " he said carelessly. "And how about a camp?"

Her admiration of him vanished into the commonplace. 

"We can't find it here, " she said, hiding her appreciation of the sceneunder her professional-guide tone. 

He frowned. "Nowhere close?"

"No. And what is worse, we'll have to go over a mountain. The streamhere is rushing right out from between cliff walls. "

Lawrence's spirit sank, but he did not show it. "We'd better eat whatlittle we have left and then be off, " he suggested simply. 

That morning was the beginning of their hardest experience since theyfirst left the beach. Scarcely had they started to climb over the greatridge, which broke into sheer precipice at the river, when a sharp windrose and cut through their unprotected bodies. Claire drew in againsthim as close as she could, while he tried to give her more protectionwith his arms. The slope was steep and filled with loose rocks so thathe lost ground at every step. They were forced to stop often, and bynoon he was worn out, and they were both bitterly cold. Claire thoughtthey were near the top, so Lawrence nerved himself to press on. 

Night found them standing on the crest of the ridge, in the face of abitter wind; before them, across a small plateau, rose a still highermountain around the northern side of which a ravine cut its jagged gashaway from the river. Claire stared at the scene until her courage brokedown. 

"We can never do it, Lawrence, " she moaned, and her head sank wearilyagainst his shoulder. Her cry was the aching moan of a heart-brokenchild. The proud, self-contained Claire was gone. It stirred Lawrencestrangely, and for the first time a warm tenderness for her came overhim. He drew her to him, and tried to comfort her. Her poorundernourished body shook with the sobs that despair and the cold wrungfrom her, and, though his own hands and body were blue, he tried to warmher. Had he seen the ground ahead of them, he, too, might have given up, but blindness was the barring wall of black which shut out even defeat. He clenched his teeth firmly, and lifted Claire in his arms againresolutely. 

"We've got to do it, Claire, " he said, "and we will. "

She attempted to paint the scene before him in graphic detail, her wordsbroken by sobs. When she finished he started forward. 

"We'll follow the gulf, " he stated. "We must keep going, Claire. Wedon't dare to stop. "

"We can't. It's dark, and will be black soon, " she answered. 

"We've got to do it, " Lawrence repeated. "It isn't the first night of mylife I've struggled against a black so dense its nothingness seemedoverpowering. "

She strained her eyes through the gathering night to turn him into thesmoothest way, lapsing into jerky, habitual words of guidance. 

In the darkness they entered the ravine and staggered down to its brokenbottom. The time soon came when she could see hardly anything until theywere almost upon it, and the white face of a boulder spotting theendless black before her filled her with a vague dread. Often theypaused to rest, but the cold drove them on again. Claire almost ceasedto direct him, and Lawrence gritted his teeth till they hurt him andforged ahead. 

Once he slipped and fell, but got to his feet again and went on. Clairewas not injured beyond a few bruises, but she noticed that he limpedmore than before and her fear increased. 

How they ever fought that night through neither knew, but morning cameat last and found them still staggering down the ravine. They werealmost out of it now and were entering a rather heavy pine forest. Fortunately the gulf they followed had turned around the mountain in thedirection of the river, and their desire for water drove them to keepon. To their blue and shaking bodies all feeling had grown vague, tingling, and uncertain. When Claire looked at Lawrence she could havescreamed. His lips were drawn back, and his hairy cheeks and sightlesseyes flashed before her the image of a dehumanized death mask. Her ownface must look like that, she thought, and buried her head on hisshoulder. Through that morning he struggled on, faltering, lurching, resting a little, girding himself against the death now so surely athand. In his mind thought had ceased to be coherent; his starved body, whipped by the cold, was beginning to play with the imagery. 

He gurgled a grim little laugh, and all clear thought was at an end. Claire heard and looked at him wonderingly. She knew that she wasfreezing, and she had resigned herself, but this man, what was he doing?He still lunged through the trees, where, at all events it seemed alittle warmer. She heard him muttering incoherent jargon that graduallycleared to speech. "We'll go on, Claire. We'll go on to the end. I'vegot to do it. I need my life. I need you!"

She started and listened, though even in her present state she grewresentful. "So that was it, " she thought; "he's waiting to get me outbefore he breaks into his love. He wants his rescue as an argument. "Then her thinking was broken into detached images. She saw her husbandand cried aloud to him. She had pictures flashing in her mind of him, ofold scenes, parties, places they had been together, tenements she hadvisited in her charity work, the beach that morning when Lawrence hadfound her, and in and through it all she heard words falling from hislips that recalled later, stung her to wrath. 

"I need you, Claire, " she heard him again, and then, "I shall use you, Claire. You will be my masterpiece. It is you, proud, superior, human, social, intellectual, sexed, vital, you, carrying in your being thewhole tumultuous riot of the ages gone, and hiding it under a guardedsocial exterior, not knowing when in a sentence it breaks through, you, you, Claire, you, the woman!"

He stumbled, regained his balance, and plunged through a fringe ofpines, staggered against one, then another, cursed, and went againforward and out into a clearing. She saw it vaguely before them. Atfirst she doubted, then, as he let his hold on her slip, she gripped hisneck with arms that scarcely felt the body they closed around. 

"Lawrence, " she screamed in a voice that was shrill--"Lawrence, a cabin, a cabin!"

He sank down with her clinging to him still. "I know, " he muttered, "I've got to find one. " Then he lay quiet. 

She freed herself and crept toward the house. She was at the back of it, and she was obliged to crawl slowly on hands and knees around to thefront. There was a door, she pushed on it, but it did not open. She grewangry at it, and beat against it with her fists, abusing it for itsobstinacy. When at last it opened she laughed wildly. 

Before her, his tall body, clad in warm, heavy clothes, stood a manwhose dark eyes grew wet with tears of pity the instant they saw her. Helifted her in his arms like a child and carried her inside. She had afleeting sense of being at home, she thought he was her husband andthrew her arms around him passionately, then, remembering Lawrence, shemurmured as he laid her down, "Out there--behind the cabin!" and wasunconscious. 

The man turned and hurried out. In a few minutes he came back, carryingLawrence, and his face was lined with pity at the state of these twohuman beings. 

He laid them together on a wide berth at the side of the cabin and beganto work over them alternately. Swiftly and deftly he heated blankets andprepared food. He wound them in the hot cloth, chafed their hands andarms, and forced brandy down their throats. 

Lawrence's eyelids drew back. 

"The man is blind, " muttered the stranger in Spanish. 

Claire was looking at him dazedly and reaching greedily toward thekettle that simmered over a great open fireplace. 

He brought a bowl of hot savory soup and started feeding them. Lawrenceswallowed mechanically, but he could hardly get the spoon out ofClaire's mouth. 

"Not too much, _señora_, " he said, turning away. 

When he looked again toward them they were both asleep. The utterexhaustion of their long night claimed rest. He walked over to Claireand stood looking down at her. 

"She was beautiful, " he thought. "And he is blind. Ah, well, for her, beauty is again possible, but for him"--he shrugged his shoulders--"itis bad, bad!" he said softly, and, turning to a shelf of books thatstood against the wall, he drew out a volume and sat down before thefire to read. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE STONE THREAT. 

When Claire awoke she stared around her for a few minutes before theevents of their frantic struggle came back to her. Her eyes strayed tothe figure before the fireplace. Idly she noted the lustrous, wavy blackhair and deep brown eyes protected by unusually heavy lashes. It wasclearly the face of a thinker, a dreamer, yet there was somethingsensual about the mouth, potentially voluptuous, abandoned, andsuggestive of tremendous passion that slumbered close beneath the brainthat was so actively awake. Claire ached, and her body tingled with theunaccustomed warmth. She lay quiet, looking at the fire, her mind stilluncertain in its action, weaving sharp, dynamic images about this newpersonality. While his appearance gripped and awed her strangely, at thesame time she felt drawn to him. She turned and threw out her hand. Herhost closed his book and looked up, smiling. 

"Ah, _la señora se siente mejor_?" His deep, rich voice, althoughlighter than Lawrence's, was full of music, but she did not understandhis words. Her blank expression told him, and he smiled again. 

"I remember, you spoke English, " he said with only the slightest accent. "Are you better, _madame_?"

She answered his warm smile and said weakly: "Much better, thank you!"

"And your husband?" Claire saw that he was looking beyond her, and sheturned to find Lawrence at her side. Instinctively she resented hisbeing there. The warm blood rushed to her face. 

"He--oh--he will be all right, I trust!" she stammered falteringly, andher host looked puzzled. Her impulse was to tell him that Lawrence wasnot her husband, but she thought better of it and said nothing about therelationship. 

"He had a long, desperate struggle to bring me here, " she said instead. "You see, I broke my ankle and he had to carry me. "

"Oh!" The man rose, his face filled with respect as he looked atLawrence asleep beside her. 

"From where did he carry you?" he asked. 

"From the coast, " she shuddered. "It has been terrible!"

His face expressed utter amazement as he repeated: "From the coast? Itis a miracle!"

She made no reply, for Lawrence stirred and tried to sit up. 

"You'd better lie still, " the stranger said kindly. "You deserve rest, my friend. " Then, as to himself, he added: "It is the first miracle inwhich I can believe. "

Claire stared at him, and he laughed softly. "Pardon, _madame_! I am anunhappy seeker after truth, " he apologized, throwing a log on the fire. 

For Lawrence and Claire the days that followed were uneventful days ofrecovery from their hardship. Slowly both of them grew stronger andresumed their normal habits of thought and speech. Their host was agentle nurse, kindly and considerate. Claire assumed her wonted attitudeof the cultured woman, a guest in the house of a friend, and theSpaniard met her with the polished courtesy of a cosmopolitan. Lawrence, too, became the usual man that he was, careless of little niceties, indifferent to form, but a charming companion and a delightful guest. 

From the first he and Philip became intensely interested in each other. They discovered early that each was a thinker and a searcher in his ownway for the one great solution of life. 

During the first half-hour Claire had demanded of their rescuer wherethey were and how soon they could get back to civilization. Philip hadlaughed gently. 

"You are on the borders of Bolivia, " he told her, "and the nearestrailroad is two hundred miles away. It is impossible to get out untilspring. Long ere this snow will have barred the way through the one passthat leads out and we are prisoners--the three of us. You will have toaccept the hospitality of Philip Ortez until the spring. "

Lawrence had accepted the verdict with calm indifference. 

"Oh, well, " he said, "it's hard on you, but as far as I'm concerned, oneplace is as good as another. "

"I shall enjoy your company, " their host laughed. 

After voicing polite thanks, Claire, in her own thought, had rebelledagainst the situation vehemently. She wanted to get home, she wanted toget away from everything that suggested her last weeks of suffering, shewanted to get away from these men. Her heart leaped to theever-recurring dream of the husband, whose arms should take her up andhold her warmly against the memory of their separation. 

"Then there is no way out?" she asked again. 

"None, _madame_, " and Philip Ortez bowed. "You will have to be the guestof a humble mountaineer. "

"I shall enjoy it, I am sure, " she answered. "It is simply a woman'snatural desire for home which leads me to ask again. "

His eyes clouded. Claire somehow found herself fancying a tragic mysteryin the life of this man, and then rebuked herself for romancing. Certainly, such fancies were not her habit, and she wondered why theywere occurring to her. 

The cabin stood on the very edge of the forest through which Lawrencehad carried Claire the last morning of their long march. Protected byits pines, the little house fronted on a small lake, a place where theriver which they had followed widened to a half-mile, and stayed thuswith scarcely any current save directly through the center. All aroundthe lake the forest stretched its massed green, and here Philip trapped. The lake, in its turn, provided him with fish. 

The week after their arrival snow had heaped itself into the ravine andpiled up high around the cabin. Ice was beginning to form on the edge ofthe lake, and their host was preparing for his winter's work. They weretoo weak to go with him, and he left them in possession of the cabin. 

At first there had been an unaccountable awkwardness between Lawrenceand Claire, and it had left a reserve which was difficult to overcome. Lawrence had explained their situation to Philip; the Spaniard had beenapologetically gracious, but there was something in Claire's nature thatmade her wish that Lawrence had never been thought of as her husband. Dressed in Philip's clothes, and in the presence of a roof and fire, shefelt a desire to be free from the memory of the days when she had clungabout Lawrence's neck, and, above all, she felt that she was not able tomeet him with understanding. His blindness in these surroundings seemedto set a sudden and impassable barrier between them, and made her ill atease when she was alone with him. 

Lawrence was irritated that she should so immediately react into what hecalled the old conventional habit toward blind people, and keep itstanding like a stupid but solid wall between all their talk. Now thatshe was no longer dependent on him, she appeared to him more attractive. He thought of her husband, and wondered if Claire's attitude towardhimself was tempered with the thought of the man at home. "Surely, " hetold himself, "she can't be allowing that to come between us, for it isso obviously quite unnecessary. " Then he began to wonder how much of herlife was centered about her husband. What sort of man was he, and didshe love him devotedly? As he thought, there crept into his feeling asense of irritation against the unknown man who was obstructing hisfriendship with the woman he had carried half through the AndesMountains. 

Then the longing for his work came over him, and there were times whenhe felt he must do something. He spoke needlessly sharp words toClaire. Though she concealed her anger, there grew between them acontinuous straining born out of mutual misunderstanding and a greatsubmerged tangle of emotions. 

One morning when Ortez in snow-shoes and fur had gone for the day tolook after his traps, Claire washed up the tin dishes they used, and satdown before the fire opposite Lawrence. His head was in his hands andhis face was somber. 

"You look sad this morning, " she said casually. 

"Do I?" he answered. "I'm not--especially. I was just planning a pieceof work, dreaming it out in outline. "

She looked at him thoughtfully. His forehead was high and broad, shethought, and his hands-- Their days in the wilderness rushed back overher. She was angry at the memories they brought her, and doubly angry atLawrence, as if he only were responsible. 

"It's inconceivable, " she said calmly, "that you, without seeing, canreally carve anything true to form and line. " In her voice wasincredulity and unbelief. 

He rose suddenly, his face white, and said, with an intensity thatstartled her: "That sentiment is as familiar to me as my name. I haveheard it from sight-bigoted people from the days when I made my firstattempt to go back to my school work. I am rather weary of it. "

She sat staring at him for a moment, then she laughed. She could nothave told why she did it, and she was instantly sorry. The blood rushedto his face. 

"I shall create that which will forever assure you that I can carve trueto the most familiar form and line you know, " he said fiercely. 

Her face was as crimson as his now, though she felt ice cold. 

"What do you mean?" she demanded, her voice unsteady. 

He laughed bitterly. In his own heart a fierce volcanic surge was ragingwhich he did not attempt to control. 

"Do you think that I, trained as I am to gather fact from touch, couldcarry you through weeks of hell in my arms, against my breast, and notknow you, you as you are, Claire Barkley? I shall carve you, you withyour cold reserve suppressing the emotional chaos within you, and youwill not fail to recognize yourself. "

Claire gripped the chair arms. Anger, fear, doubt, then the knowledgethat he could do as he said, swept over her in rapidly succeeding waves, and gathered at last into a steel hate that she felt must last througheternity. 

"You, you would do that, after I guided you here! You would takeadvantage of what I could not help, and--and--" she choked, and thensaid swiftly--"so, under your indifferent exterior you used your touchthat way these days! Oh, you--you beast!"

Lawrence laughed coolly. "I could no more help it than I can avoid beinghere. "

"Lies!" she exclaimed. "A gentleman could help it!"

"Perhaps, but not an artist. "

"And what of beauty, of your boasted purity of art, is there in that?"

"All, " he said calmly. "If you knew, oh, if I could make you see whatevery artist knows"--he was talking passionately now, his face illuminedin spite of his blind eyes--"you would realize, that I could not helpit, that I glory in it, and that it was and is the way of art. "

He rose and walked the floor, pouring out his creed in a stream ofburning words. "I am a machine, a sensitive thing that registers what itfeels and knows, that is all. You touch me, my brain registers thattouch, and something in me, the will to live, the desire to create, theinsistent shout for expression says, 'Take that and carve it in stone. 'If I could see, if I were not blind, I would have been a painter. Iwould have painted you, almost naked as you were, your eyes filled withthe hunger for life, your face tense with racing thoughts, I would havepainted you fully, all of you, as you were in night-gown and skirt therein that forest, and you would have shouted to all the world from mycanvas, 'Look at me, I am the primitive, the wild, the passionate, thetender, the selfish and unselfish living woman. See me as I am, cultured, refined, educated, elemental withal, and the emblem ofhumanity as it is, still stained with the traditional mud ofsuperstition and blood that marks its origin. Oh, I would have paintedyou so, and now I shall carve you so!"

He stopped, and Claire looked at him wildly, her eyes aflame with hateand admiration. 

"You would use another human being that way?" she gasped. 

"I would use any one, I would, I will, at any cost to them, to me, ifthe outcome be a piece of art, a work that in its truth, its immortalbeauty, shall stand a lasting testimony that I, Lawrence Gordon, havemastered blindness and registered life correctly. "

A great light swept over her mind; that was the key to him. He wouldsacrifice himself to conquer blindness--but would he, she wondered, andinstantly her thought found expression. 

"Would you crush yourself to create that mastery of blindness?"

He laughed. "I have, I am doing it, " he said. "I would go through allthe torment of the world if I might create something lasting, true, andbeautiful. "

Claire leaned forward, her lips apart, her eyes bright. That she hatedthis man she was sure, yet all her woman's soul was awed by what she nowsaw behind his mask of blindness. Then a new thought came to her. 

"Might it not be, " she asked subtly, "if you hold suffering to be thekey to beauty that you would profit more at last by denying the impulseto create the thing you are planning?"

He laughed again. "I hold that pain is only the spur to progress. I carenothing for the sentimentalism you are talking now. I carried youthrough the wilderness, I suffered and bore it, I staggered throughnights and days with your warm body against mine that I might live, andnow--now I know the value of life, I understand as never before the painour fathers paid. I know the bitter animal war against environment, evolution whipped into action by pain, hunger, fear of death, and Ishall carve that, all that, into the statue of one woman. "

"And what of me, me and you as such, Claire and Lawrence, who were therethrough that struggle in the wilderness?" The speech leaped fromsomewhere in her being before she knew it, and with it came knowledgethat stung her into tearful self-hate. 

"We shall go back to our old lives, I suppose, and live them out. "

It was what she had expected him to say, yet the calm matter-of-factstatement hurt her as nothing he had ever said before. 

Lawrence dropped into the arm-chair again, and rested his head on hishand. He was calmer now, and, reviewing in his mind what he had said, hewas beginning to ask himself why had he given way to this suddenresentment against Claire. If she doubted him because he was blind, wasthat any more than others had done? He had never burst out against them. What was the matter with him? He surveyed the whole trend of his life upto this minute: how he had broken at late adolescence from a glowingidealist to a wanderer through varying paths of thought; always stirred, stimulated, and swept on by contact with other people, books he hadread, women for whom he had occasional fancies of love, until graduallyhe settled into his assured manner. It was exercise he needed, that andwork. 

He asked himself if he seriously loved Claire, and answeredunequivocally that he did not. He wanted her friendship very much, indeed, but love, not at all. If she had been single, perhaps--but no, he did not care about her that way, that was all. He had been too longshut up here in the cabin with her and without work. He must get somewood and amuse himself carving things with Ortez's knife; it would begood practise, and, at the same time, relieve his nerves. He was sorryhe had let himself go; Claire must not be hurt. 

"Claire, " he said quietly, "if I wounded you, if I said things I oughtnot, pardon me! I am getting nervous doing nothing, and I am not myselfthese days. "

She laughed calmly. "Oh, very well!" she said. "I wonder that we don'tcome to blows, cooped up here as we are. I think next time Philip makeshis rounds I'll go with him. "

"It would be a good thing, " answered Lawrence. "I'd like it myself. "

Claire did not keep up the talk. She, too, was thinking fast, and facingnew problems that demanded her attention. She was surprised to find thather resentment toward Lawrence was completely gone. What would herhusband think of him? What would he do when she returned, when she toldhim of her journey with this blind man through weeks and weeks ofwilderness when they were almost naked. She stopped, that was whatLawrence had said, 'almost naked. ' Her flesh tingled as she saw thepicture which he said he would like to paint of her. 

What would she, Claire Barkley, do if such a picture were painted? Sheburied her face deep in her hands, but in her heart she knew that shewould respect the man who painted it. And if Lawrence carved her so instone, and did it as he thought he could--she pondered over that forsome time. 

"I think, " she said aloud, and Lawrence raised his head, "that if I wereto stay shut up here alone as Philip does, I should go crazy beforespring. "

"It all depends on how your mind is occupied, " he laughed. 

She blushed guiltily, and was glad he could not see her face. 

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK. Don't forget this magazineis issued weekly, and that you will get thecontinuation of this story without waiting a month. 

WHAT LIBERTY BONDS MEAN

PATRIOTISM, VICTORY, THE SOUNDEST INVESTMENT IN THEWORLD, A PERFECT MEANS OF SAVING

BUY ALL YOU CAN

Claire

by Leslie Burton Blades

THE BLIND LOVE OF A BLIND HERO

_BY A BLIND AUTHOR_

This story began in the All-Story Weekly for October 5. 

CHAPTER VII. 

PLAYING WITH FIRE. 

In the late afternoon, Philip returned to find Lawrence still sittingbefore the fire, his mind centered on ideas for his future work. Clairehad disappeared behind the canvas curtain which was stretched before herbed. 

"It is almost Christmas, " announced Philip, as he entered. 

Lawrence straightened up. "Back again?" he said, carelessly. "It's beena beastly day. "

Claire came out from her partition, laughing. "If you don't take one ofus with you next time, " she said, "I won't answer for the tragedy thatmay follow. "

Philip laughed, and shook the snow from his big coat. 

"Too much of your own continuous company?" he asked. 

"Yes"--her tone was light, but he saw that she was in earnest--"we areso accustomed to each other that we both need a rest. " She drew up achair for Philip before the fire. 

His dark eyes looked searchingly at her. 

"If you knew the path to peace, " he said, "you would be happier. I seethat I must take you out with me and teach you the hidden entrance tothat mystic roadway. "

"You know one, then?" Lawrence's voice was amusedly skeptical. 

"It lies through the heart of man into the heart of"--Philippaused--"shall I say God?"

"You may as well, though it isn't especially clear. " Lawrence smiled. "God is a big, but vague, term. "

"I find it so, " Philip answered, seriously. "There are days, however, and this was one of them, when I am sure of the meaning of that term. Claire must go forth with me and see. "

"Yes, do let me go, " she said, eagerly. Then, with a little laugh: "Ifyour mystery out there is as discomforting as the Lawrence mystery inhere, I sha'n't worship him, however. "

"He isn't. " Philip arose and crossed to his books. "He is the mighty Godwho speaks in solitude. " He drew down a volume, and returned to hischair. 

"I find here in these mountains the medicine that _Hamlet_ should havehad. He would have been no _Hamlet_ had he ranged this plateau for a dayin winter. "

"And the world would be the loser, " Lawrence interposed. 

Claire rose and started to prepare their evening meal. She had takenover the duties of housekeeping from the time her ankle had allowed herto walk. 

"If you two are going to plunge the house into an argument such as thatone promises to be, " she said gaily, "I am going to reenforce the innerman so that at least you won't suffer from physical exhaustion. "

Both men laughed, and one of them listened to her thoughtfully as shemoved about, while the other watched her, his dark eyes full of a keenappreciation of her grace and her concise, accurate movements. 

"How good it is to have her here, " thought Philip. Aloud, he said, seriously: "I do not think the world gains enough from _Hamlet_ to makeit worth the price he paid. "

"Why not?" Lawrence was quick to respond. "Whatever his agony, whateverhis failures and his death, he left the world a picture of man's heroicstruggles to solve the riddle of the universe, his wisdom, hisstrength--and his weakness. "

"But that is just what we don't want--the picture of man's weakness. Itis made all the worse when it is presented with the power of a sublimework. "

Claire turned from the stove, and looked at Philip. His eyes wereburning with a deep, earnest fire that held her fascinated. She thoughthim the most beautiful of all the men she knew. It was not his face, nothis appearance generally, but his eyes. Oh, the loss of such eyes! shethought--yes, they are what makes him a finer man than Lawrence. Whyhasn't Lawrence such eyes?

"Believe me, friend, " Philip was speaking again, "if I could erase frommy knowledge the weakness of man, I would not need to trail my feetthrough these snow-buried forests to find an hour's rest from life. "

Claire saw his fingers move nervously on the arms of his chair, andthought: "That is it, then; I was right; he has his tragedy. " She lookedat him again, and as she met his eyes she felt that she was sorrier forhim than she had ever been for Lawrence. Yes, she was sorrier for thisman whose soul burned out of his eyes than for that other whose soul wasalways curtained by the expressionless mask that hid him. 

"I can't quite agree with you, " Lawrence was saying; "I, too, know theweakness of man, but there is, nevertheless, the glory of sublime beautywhich alone stands, immortal. I should indeed mourn for man if he wereunable to be truly immortal even in his created work. That, it seems tome, saves him. "

"Or loses him, " Philip added. "One golden life of unbroken sunshine, dead at last and laid away in the memory of friends is worth more thanyour greatest poem. "

"I should call that sentimentality, " Lawrence laughed. 

"So it is, " Philip flashed, "and why not? Must we kill sentiment and goabout with hearts of ice because our world is hard?"

"Is there no way to keep ourselves warm without poultices?" retortedLawrence. 

Claire sat down at the table. "Come on and enjoy your venison, you two, and have done with the ills of the universe. "

The two men joined her. It was a strange trio: Claire, a dashing boy inPhilip's made-over corduroys; Lawrence wearing his host's summer sergeas though it were his own, and Philip looking at them, amusedly. 

"I never quite recover from the charm of you in male attire, " Ortezremarked, looking into her face. 

"I've tried at times since our fortunate misfortune to imagine her inevening gowns and furs, " said Lawrence; "but I always fail and end bygetting her into some sort of barbaric costume belonging to the distantpast. "

"You are both flattering and both foolish, " she told them. "It's mybusiness to look well in clothes, you know, and it's masculine to admitmy efficiency in a particularly feminine line. "

"You were scarcely fascinatingly efficient in the garb in which youfirst appeared to me. " Philip laughed at the recollection. 

"That isn't fair. I would have been if I had had enough to eat. "

She looked at him, and her eyes sparkled gaily. 

"I surrender, " he said. "You would have been. Too fascinating!"

"That also depends on circumstances, " said Lawrence. "She wouldn't befascinatingly efficient in that back-to-nature garb if she were doingcharity work at home or if she were taking a trip in an airplane. "

"You carry your point, " she agreed. "I shouldn't care to try. "

"Which leads me, " Lawrence went on, "to observe that our friend, Shakespeare, was, after all, right in bequeathing _Hamlet_ to us. Hemight not look well in our own castle, but as a portrait viewed in ourneighbor's house, or in a house unspecified, he is the high point ofsubjective tragedy. "

Ortez did not answer for a moment, then he said, quietly: "I had ratherlose my winter's work than lost _Hamlet_ from my memory, yet when Ithink of what there is in life for a man, did he not have _Hamlet's_doubt to face, I think perhaps we would all be better off for noknowledge of that subjective war. Man has too much to do to lift himselfout of the still clinging primordial slough to dally withsubjectiveness. We should be acting, aggressive, strident in thestrength of the war we wage toward freedom. "

"Of course, " agreed Lawrence, "but that requires only one thing, themaster passion to do, because for us, doing is life. I cannot regret_Hamlet's_ hesitating failure. It was his life. To every man there isbut one way, his way, and whether it be failure or success does notdepend upon an avenged wrong, a successful marriage, or even a greatwork done for humanity. The test is, is his life worth the price he paysto live it? I imagine _Hamlet's_ was. "

"Fallacies!" interrupted Claire. "Why, then, the tragedy?"

"Because _Hamlet_ did not know that the governing laws to which hestrove to hold himself were not laws, not true, not necessary. "

"You mean, " Ortez inquired, "that he was not bound to avenge his fatherand punish his mother?"

"I mean just that. Why should he? She was satisfied, his father wasdead, and _Hamlet_ gained nothing by his moral strutting and ravingagainst his own hesitating hand. "

"But you have swept aside all moral law, " protested Philip. 

"What moral law is there that is external to me? What, indeed, is morallaw?"

"That which makes for life, perhaps, as some one has said, " offeredClaire. 

"For my life, yes. That which to me means life, is good. That which tome means less life, is bad. "

"Yet you carried Claire through the mountains, " Philip's voice was hard. 

"Because I needed her, because she was essential to my life. "

"Then you would have left her, had she been a hindrance?"

"That depends, " answered Lawrence slowly. "Had she made my lifeuncertain when otherwise I might have lived, I think I would. Of course, if her being there merely increased my trouble, I should have broughther. "

Claire was watching Philip's face. It was a study. On it there wassomething that made her heart beat faster, she found herself unable totell why. She glanced at Lawrence. There he sat, his strong, stern face, calm and soulless. She wondered why blindness robbed this man of hisrightful appearance. He had a soul, and it was a wild, beauty-lovingsoul, she knew, but blindness quite mantled it. On the other hand, Philip's was a mighty fire within, which shone in beauty through hiseyes. Lawrence had quietly spoken of how he would have left her underother circumstances. Philip would have died at her side, she knew it. What a difference between them!

"But if you feel as you declare, why take that extra trouble to saveher?" Philip asked. 

"Because I have a certain dislike of death and don't care to cause itmyself if I can help it. "

Claire laughed. "But death, you said once, is a mere stopping of animalaction. Why dread that?"

"Because I myself do not care to die, I would not care to cause yourdeath. "

Philip rose and went to the fire. "I do not believe you could live byyour theory, " he asserted. 

"I do live by it. There is but one thing I dread worse than death. Iwould die rather than give up my creative impulse. "

"And he would sacrifice your life or mine for art's sake, " merrily addedClaire. "It's a good thing he doesn't think we are hindrances to art. "

Philip also laughed. "Well, " he said, "there might come a time when I, too, would want a thing enough to kill in order to obtain it. "

"What, for example?" asked Lawrence. "That is the best way to determineyour value of life. "

Philip did not answer for a few minutes, then his voice vibrated. 

"The things that mean more than life to me. I know that one holds hisown life dear, but there are things, love, courage, honor, for example, that he holds even above life. "

"Would you kill me, for instance, " asked Lawrence pleasantly, "if Istood between you and Claire?"

"That is scarcely answerable, " nervously interposed Claire. "You see, you don't and the man who does--though it's all absurd, since we none ofus here are the least in love--is my husband. "

"I had almost forgotten him, " said Lawrence, his voice lingering softlyon the word "almost. "

Philip laughed. "Why, yes, in the abstract, I should say that ifanything would make me kill you, it would be your standing between meand the woman I loved. Of course, the case is fair, but scarcelyprobable enough to make any of us worry. "

"True"--Lawrence joined him at the fire--"and by the way, while I thinkof it, I want a knife and a block of soft wood. I'm going to entertainmyself these days. "

Quickly Claire looked up. 

"And you shall entertain me, Philip, " she said gaily. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE TIGHTENING NET. 

Christmas was upon them. They gathered before the big fireplace insilent meditation, while outside the wind whipped sheeted snow againstthe walls and wailed dismally its endless journeying. They could nothelp but feel the something melancholy in the air. The little cabin, standing so far away from civilization and all the things they wereaccustomed to know seemed somehow to set them apart from the rest of theworld and leave them stranded as it were, upon a barren stretch ofthought. 

In keeping with the setting, solemn questions of destiny, death, and themeaning of things took the place of the usual Christmas festival andglitter. 

In Lawrence's mind, Claire was growing more and more predominant. Hefound her constant association weaving itself into his life until, whenhe looked ahead toward the day when they must part, he discoveredhimself asking what he could find that would take her place. Her voice, her little habits of speech, the unexpected question that showed herdeep interest in him, in his work, and in his attitude toward her, thesehad gradually stirred in him the desire to establish in his own mind adefinite relation toward her which he could maintain. 

When Claire went out for a while with Philip, Lawrence spent the interimin trying to reason out his problem. He told himself that he would feeldifferently in his old environment with friends and work, but the answerwas not satisfactory. He knew that even there, he would miss the quicksound of movement, the quick phrase that was Claire. 

Did he love her then? He asked himself that, and could not answer. Whatwas love to him, anyway? He sought to think out a scheme of love thatwould fit into his system of utter selfishness, and failed. The memoryof her in his arms came to him now with a warm, emotional coloring thathad been absent during the days of their journey. 

Had he been so impersonal then at first? He remembered his first wildjoy at finding her there in the surf, and he admitted that even thenthere had been a subtle heightening of his pleasure, because it was awoman. Since his blindness he had been separated from the other sex evenmore than from his own, and now he was to live with one daily, havingher alone to talk to, to watch, to be interested in, and to know--yes, that had been a part of his feeling that morning. He remembered that hehad been slightly irritated at her when he had first decided that shewas cold and intellectual. He had wanted her to be warm, colorful, vivid, and feminine. He had found later that she was all these things, but not toward him. It was a man whom he had never known, her husband, Howard Barkley, for whom she was wholly woman. Always when she spoke ofhim her voice had warmed, grown softer, subtly shaded with color. 

Claire opened the cabin door. 

"Hello, Mr. Dreamer! Still in the land of to-morrow?" she called, takingoff her heavy wraps. 

"Where's Philip?" Lawrence demanded gruffly, without moving. 

"Working over a trap in the ravine. I was a little tired, so I didn'twait. "

Lawrence could hear her brushing her hair. He was glad she had returnedwithout Philip. Now at least they would have a few minutes alone. 

"Snow bad?" he asked. If he could only have run his hands through thatcurly mass! The memory of her hair brushing against his face made histemples throb dully. 

"Yes, my hair is filled with it. I caught my cap on a branch, and thewhole load of snow came down on top of me. "

"How old are you, Claire?" he demanded suddenly. 

She laughed. "Guess! Don't you know it isn't good form to ask a lady herage?"

"Sometimes you are quite thirty, and other times--"

"Well, go on. " Claire was standing at the opposite side of the fireplacewith her back to the flame. 

"Other times, you are two, " Lawrence continued calmly. 

"I thought that was coming. Well, just to prove what a really niceperson I am, I'll tell you. I'm twenty-six. "

"When were you married, Claire?" Her breath tightened at his question. 

"Curiosity is a wonderful thing, and the impudence of man passeth allunderstanding. I have been married exactly six years, three months, andtwenty-four days. " The last sentence brought the catch into her voicethat Lawrence had expected. 

"I know you miss your husband, " he forced himself to say formally. 

"Yes, you see"--Claire hesitated--"ours wasn't like some marriages onehears about. Howard and I were both very much in love. " She realized toolate the past tense. Had Lawrence noticed it? "I miss him dreadfully, "she added desperately. 

Lawrence said nothing. He had noticed Claire's slip, and the verb hadsent him into a thousand realized dreams. The next instant he wascursing himself for a fool. "Fools, all of us, " he thought. "Philip, too, warming himself with dreams of Claire. " Before the nearness of theSpaniard's personality, Howard Barkley faded into the background. Lawrence reviewed his own position moodily. 

Blind, unable to do the work that Philip did, certainly unable to usethe million little ways of courtesy-building as Philip did, his chanceswere unequal. 

Did he want Claire for Claire, or was it only the fighting instinct, thedesire to overcome men not handicapped as he was? Would he still wantClaire after he had won her? After the intimacies of home life had madeher familiar as nothing else could, and had dispelled all romance, allthe alluring appeal that sprang from the deepest sex-prompted desire yetunattained, would he still want her? That was the question, and he couldnot say. The experience alone could tell him--and would that experienceever come?

Claire watched Lawrence's face, the while her own thoughts raced on. Ithad been love she felt for her husband. She was sure of that. Of course, in the years of their life together, the old, wild passion had graduallyretired into its normal proportion, leaving them free to go about calmlyand untroubled. But it was there, as she well knew in the hours whenthey became lovers again. Certainly those hours had been joyous, happyones, unclouded by any suspicion of mere gratification of impulse ordesire. Yes, they had been hours of love claiming its rightfulexpression over the more constant hours of daily living. 

Then she recalled her experience of the night before. She had beendreaming of her husband, but he possessed Lawrence's features, illuminedwith the glow of Philip's eyes, and she had started into fullwakefulness with a sudden sense of her position. Now she sat before thefire, and resolved grimly that no matter what happened she would befaithful to Howard. Of course, she would go with Philip to look afterhis traps, the exercise was the best antidote to such morbid thoughts, and he would never make advances to her, of that she was sure. As forthe days that she might spend alone with Lawrence, he was tooself-centered, too much wrapped up in his wood-carving, to think of awoman--and she disregarded the little pang of discontent thataccompanied her thought. 

Philip was hanging the skins over the door. Claire realized that she hadbeen too engrossed to notice his entrance. 

"I break a six weeks' fast to-day"--and he turned toward Lawrence. "Doyou smoke?"

"Man!" said Lawrence, springing up, "if I'd known you had tobacco instore I'd have murdered you long ago to get it. I would be a moreagreeable companion if I could taste tobacco now and then. "

"Pardon me for not thinking to ask you. I was declaring a six months'course in self-discipline for the good of my soul. "

"Bring forth the smoke, " said Lawrence joyously. 

"Unfortunately"--Philip turned to Claire--"a bachelor's storehousecontains no treat for a lady. Your visit was unexpected. "

"I shall gain my pleasure through watching you two sink back into abeloved vice, " she answered. 

"Horrible!" Lawrence sat down, and took the cigarette which Philipproduced. "To enjoy seeing one succumb to vice. "

"Isn't it characteristic of scandal-loving humanity?" she rejoined. 

"And on Christmas Day!" Philip chided her lightly. Then he went on, seriously: "But one should really be above all things save love andgratitude to God on this day. "

"I suppose so, " said Lawrence, "but it's difficult to determine justwhere this object of gratitude abides and what He is. "

"Is it necessary to locate Him?" asked Claire. 

Lawrence breathed deeply with the satisfaction in his cigarette. "Ishould hate to direct my gratitude toward some one who missed it, andthus have it lost in desert space, " he answered. 

"It isn't that we need God so much as it is simply the good we gainourselves, " said Philip slowly. "I still follow the old trail for my ownheart's sake. "

"And does it get you anywhere?" Lawrence's question was characteristic. 

"Yes, I think so. I find myself nearer to the source of that which isworth while. "

"What is worth while?" Claire asked. 

The answers she obtained were the two men revealed. 

"The fullest life possible for me, " said Lawrence. 

"The fullest heart possible for me, " followed Philip. 

"But you both mean the same thing, don't you?" asked Claire. 

"I mean the fullest number of my own desires gratified, " Lawrenceavowed. 

Philip leaned back in his chair and looked at Claire, meditatively. 

"If he did as he says, we should have to lock him up, " he observed. 

They all laughed. 

"Not at all. " Lawrence was amiably argumentative. "To be sure, if mydesires were gratified at your expense, as this smoke, for example"--helaughed--"and on an all-inclusive scale, you might have to resort topersonal violence. But, in fact, many of my desires would bring you joyin their gratification, you know. "

"I do know, " said Philip cordially, "but the danger in your point ofview is that it allows for no check. You would sacrifice both of us ifit were necessary to gratify your desires--that is, if you lived true toyour assertion. "

"Perhaps I would. I don't know. There is the weak point in my wholescheme. I evade it by failing to sacrifice you, but I support my theoryby saying there is no occasion to do so. "

"I don't like your principles, " Philip rejoined, "though I admit that myown fail me more often than not. "

"Exactly. We humans do fail, and the conclusion to which it brings meis, why hold principles that you find unworkable? I prefer a standard towhich I can at least be true, in the main, and avoid self-condemnation, pricks of conscience, and other little inconveniences. "

"Such as a sense of duty?" interrupted Claire. 

"That above all, Claire, " he laughed. 

"And obligation?"

"Yes, that too, if you mean a sense of being bound to one because ofsomething he has done in the past. For instance, I am obliged to Philipfor his food, his house, my life, and this cigarette, but I scarcelyfeel that that would imply that I must sacrifice my greatest desire inlife as payment if necessary. Of course, it isn't necessary, but if itwere, I should refuse. "

"I think you would not, " asserted Philip. 

"I know I would. I rather believe you would also, though it might bethat you would not. "

"I would sacrifice anything to pay a debt of gratitude. " Philip spokewarmly. 

"You would--perhaps--but in so doing would you not feel that gratitudewas the thing of supreme worth to yourself?"

"Not necessarily. I might even suffer all my life for having done so. "

"Impossible. You would either redeem your sense of life's value by a newbelief, or you would die. "

"Then you think a man can do as he pleases and maintain hisself-respect, his personal integrity?"

"He will find some way to make himself feel worth while, or he willcease to be. "

"You think that a criminal, or perhaps better, a person abandoned tovice, feels justified?"

"Yes. He creates a belief by which his abandonment is not destructive tohimself, or he is converted, which is simply a convulsion of nature forthe same end, to preserve his life and make it seem valuable to him. "

"Could you, for instance, murder a man, and do it believing thatafterward you would somehow make it seem right, or at least so necessarythat you would feel as self-respecting and sin-free as before?" Philipwas speaking earnestly. 

"I should not do so unless I were forced to it, but if I were, I knowthat I would somehow reconstruct my mental life so that I would stillfeel existence worth the price. "

Claire leaned forward. "Lawrence, " she said jestingly, "you have sweptaway the bulwark of the home, made infidelity easy, and numberlessseparated families inevitable with your bold, bad talk. Aren't you sorryfor all those tragedies?"

He laughed. "Very, " he said, "though it was watching such proceedingstake place so frequently that led me to accept my theory. Think of themen and women who are unfaithful, who leave their wedded partner foranother, and still find life worth while. "

"But that is their failure to live true to their principles, " saidPhilip. "It is commonly called sin, my friend. "

"It may be, according to their light, but they generally get a new lightafterward. You see, I do not believe that God joins men and women. I ampersuaded that a very natural physical desire does so, and it doesn'tfollow that the first is the only or best union. "

"My husband would simply dread me if I held your view, and I should feelvery wary if I were your wife, Lawrence, " remarked Claire. 

That was the central point in the whole discussion, though none of themwere aware of it. Vaguely they felt that they were groping their waytoward the future, but they did not allow the feeling to reach aconscious state, and Philip laughingly broke up the talk. 

"Here we are, " he said, yawning, "the fire is making us all sleepy, we're talking foolishness, and we need exercise. Why not get it? I thinkwe might all of us go out and face the wind for a quarter of an hour, then let it blow us back to camp like three children. I have the skisfor us all. "

"Great!" Claire clapped her hands in applause. 

"It's a splendid idea, " agreed Lawrence, and they set forth. 

It was hard going against the wind; Philip was the only one who managedhis skis very satisfactorily, and Lawrence, of course, had to beassisted, but the crust was smooth and clear, and they made great sportof it. The two men placed Claire between them and crossed hands in frontof her, like skaters. The fresh snow-filled air blew into their lungs, and they laughed like boys on a holiday. Claire glanced at the two andthought: "What a pair to be between!" Then laughed again. All themorbidity was gone, she was not thinking follies now, and neither ofthem was more than a good friend. Philip was thinking that Claire wasgood to see as she moved along between them, her graceful strokecarrying her over the snow, her cheeks stung red in the wind. Lawrencewas not thinking at all. He was simply moving, deeply enjoying the windand the exercise and the soft, strong little hand upon his own, helpingto guide him through his darkness. 

When they turned and stood close together, the wind caught them like asail and sent them skimming before it. The sense of tobogganing waskeenly exhilarating. Home, problems, worries, the future, all seemedvery simply, very easy, and not at all a matter for long conversationsbefore a hot fire. 

CHAPTER IX. 

CLAIRE'S ABASEMENT. 

The following days and even weeks passed quickly, carried on the wave oflight-hearted play which Philip had so wisely started that Christmasnight. February came with clear sun that set the snow glittering like afield of crystal under the dark pines, and they laughed with exuberanceof spirit as they swept over it on their skis. Even Lawrence became anadept as long as he had one of their guiding hands to hold. Allspeculation was gone for the time being. Lawrence and Claire gavethemselves up to a frank comradeship, in which Philip formed a splendidthird, so that they seemed a trio of happy, healthy animals whose livesflowed without a break in the mere pleasure of living. 

But one morning early in the month, Philip said after breakfast, overhis coffee and cigarette, "I'm going for the day to my farthest trapsacross the river. Claire, would you care to go? We'll get back late thisevening. "

"I would, " she said promptly. "I'll be ready in a few minutes. "

Lawrence did not say anything, but to his sudden surprise he felt hisheart sink. An insistent inner voice was saying, "I wish she wouldn'tgo. "

He heard her, back of the curtain, dressing for the trip, and his littlepetulant thought grew into gloom at the prospect of her being away. Hefelt irritated at Philip for suggesting that she go. 

"You'll have to leave me a good spread, Claire, " he said finally whenshe emerged into the room. 

"I'll fix you up a great meal, " she laughed. "You can eat all day, ifyou like. " In her voice there was an unusual warmth, for at his wordsshe felt suddenly as though she were thoughtless of him in going. For aminute she pondered giving up the trip, then concluded that to do sowould seem ridiculous, and set about preparing his lunch. 

Philip rose and, putting on his heavy coat, said carelessly, "You cancarve us a new wooden image, Lawrence. "

The words were casual and without intention, but they angered. Lawrencefelt as though both of them were trying to make amends to him for theirgoing, as though, being blind, he must of course stay at home, but oughtto have something to occupy his time. His resentment grew stronger as hecontinued to think of their supposed condescension. 

When the lunches were ready Claire and Philip started. At the door shepaused and said gaily: "Keep the house warm for our returning, Lawrence. "

He was sullenly angry and made no reply. The frank way in which shespoke of herself and Philip somehow recalled to his mind other couples, married lovers starting out somewhere, and his heart tightenedperceptibly. After they were gone he sat thinking for a long time, andhis impulsive feeling clarified into certainty. Claire and Philip werein love. Perhaps they did not know it yet themselves, and had notspoken, perhaps they had; at any rate, they were in love. It had grownbetween them in his very presence, and he, doubly blind fool, had notknown. If he could have seen, it would have been clear to him, ofcourse. 

He thought of Claire's husband, and grew virtuously angry at Claire. Howard Barkley would mourn his days out, never knowing that his belovedwife was living in Bolivia with a Spanish trapper! He saw Claire goingabout the cabin as Philip's wife and doing for love the things she nowdid out of a desire to be of use, and his rage grew. Was it not for lovethat she did them now? But she was just as thoughtful of him as she wasof Philip. "Of course, idiot, " he muttered, "she pities you; you poor, abandoned, blind man, you are to be cared for, don't you see?" He stroveto shake himself into a different mood by self-ridicule. Was this thephilosopher who made life a matter of calm acceptance of circumstanceswhich he knew to be his master? He laughed at himself, but the laugh wasbitter, and he knew that he was not willing to accept this particularturn of circumstances. 

But what right had he to judge what she did? She was not his wife northe woman who would be his wife. She could never be his wife. There washer husband. No, it was not her husband that counted, but Philip!Suddenly Lawrence realized the point that he had reached. 

He loved Claire Barkley. 

The admission of that at last in frank, utter avowal set him dreaming ofthe joys she might have been to him. He thought of a thousand littleintimacies, cares, thoughtfulnesses, that she might have given him andreceived from him, and they were all made vital, real, by the now ardentmemory of her in his arms, of the hands he had held in his own so oftenof late in the open. 

In the afternoon he grew disgusted with himself. He had moped all day inhis chair, moving only to replenish the fire or get a cigarette, and henow shook himself vigorously free from his thoughts. "You love her, yes, and she obviously does not love you, " he told himself. "Why, then, makethe best of it, if you can't do better, and at least don't be a beast inyour treatment of your host when he comes back to his own hearth. "

With that he dragged out a block of wood, took his knife, and went towork. As was his way, he was soon unconscious of everything but thepiece of wood beneath his hand. He had never done wood-carving before, and he was learning the technique that made it very different from clay. He had gone at this piece without any special intent and was shaping itinto a cherub merely out of whim, but he was giving to the task everyatom of his skill, and his hands worked with every nerve strained todetect and keep line and proportion. 

Swiftly under his knife the child's body grew in shape, and he caressedthe rough form tenderly. He would polish it later, and then whatpleasure it would represent! It would make a great decoration for thecabin--for her cabin. He winced--yes, for hers and Philip's cabin. "Fool!" he ejaculated. "Forget it!" He bent again to his work, but itdid not go so smoothly. Out there she and Philip would be laughingmerrily together, skimming over the snow in long, sweeping strides, handin hand. Would they think of him? Probably not, or if they did it wouldbe to say, "Poor Lawrence! It's a pity he's blind. He has real talent. "

He gritted his teeth. Well, he had real talent, and they should know it. She should know it. He would show her such carving as she had neverthought possible. After all, was her love to him, Lawrence the artist, the capable, blindness-conquering artist? "I am reconstructing my life, "he thought, "so that I can still find it valuable without the woman Iwant. " He again laughed bitterly and said to himself, "You poor, blind, groveling beast, you, what a poor excuse for life you have, and what atawdry substitute you would offer Claire for the vast joy that is hers!Oh, it is contemptible!"

He bent over his work again, and the door opened. 

Claire came across the room and leaned over him, her body radiating acool, healthy perfume as she laid her hand on his shoulder. 

"Oh, what a splendid piece of work, Lawrence!"

Her voice was joyous, triumphant, and his heart beat desperately againsthis chest. "They've declared their love, " he thought, and then he saidsimply, his voice vibrant with the emotion he did not otherwise show, "It's been beastly lonesome to-day, Claire. "

She laughed gaily, while her eyes clouded. Then she noticed theuntouched food on the table. 

"Why, Lawrence, didn't you like the lunch I fixed for you?"

"It was bully, Claire, " he answered quickly, "but I wasn't very hungryto-day--I don't know why. "

The emotional coloring in his voice set her whole being atremble. Shehad come in, radiant with the day's pleasure, and he had met her withhis need. He had been too blue even to eat. She was suddenly seized withpity for him, as she thought of his long day alone. But more than that, over and over in her heart she kept saying, with a joy she could notconceal from herself, "He loves me! He loves me!"

Philip came in and bent over them both to look at the wooden child. 

"_Caramba!_ it is a marvelous thing!" he exclaimed. The unconscious useof the Spanish word showed the genuineness of his admiration. 

Claire laughed joyously. She was glad that Philip knew the power of thisblind man who loved her, and a vague feeling came over her that she wasnow somehow safe from Philip. Instantly she wondered at her feeling theneed of safety from him. Glancing back over Lawrence's head, she metOrtez's eyes and read in their look a tenderness that he did not knowwas there. Her heart leaped unsteadily, and her lashes dropped. She wassaying to herself, "How wonderful he is!"

Then she turned and almost ran behind the curtain that walled her room. On the edge of her bed she sat, her face in her hands, hot tears burningher eyes, while over and over the blood rushed into her cheeks and outagain. 

"Claire! Claire! What sort of a woman are you?" she moaned. 

Her heart beat irregularly under the surge of emotion that shook her. She was glad, glad that Lawrence loved her. She had looked into the eyesof Philip Ortez, and her own had dropped, while her mind had leaped intoadmiration of him, warm, yielding admiration. What was it that had swepther on the discovery of one man's love to a deep, vibrant gladness--thatanother man's eyes had been filled with tenderness for her? Was she sochanged from the Claire of old? Was she utterly degraded? Did she wantboth men to love her? Did she love either of them? What of her husband?She sank down on the bed and wept silently. 

They were talking out there in the cabin. She heard Lawrence saylaughingly: "One gets accustomed to hearing your voices around, and tohearing Claire do things, so that a day alone seems endless. "

"Hearing Claire do things"--that was it--and suppose he knew what shewas, would he want to hear her then?

"Oh, I know, " Philip was answering. "It gets to be a sort of necessity, doesn't it, when we have so many associations and memories all amongourselves? I shall find the place dreary next winter, I am afraid, whenyou are back among your friends, and Claire"--he paused slightly--"willbe going about as ever, doing things for her husband somewhere up therein the States. "

Would her husband ever imagine or discover what she was? If he did, hewould leave her. She remembered a girl in the slums at home who hadrefused to be uplifted. "Aw, one fellow ain't enough. A plain ham is allright for some, but I want a club-sandwich. " She shuddered now at thememory of the girl's words, and shrank together on her bed. Was sheanother of that sort, abnormal, degenerate, whose life must find itslevel at last in the sordid riot of promiscuity, disguising itself aslove? If Claire had never touched the bed-rock of self-abasement before, she was doing it now, there in that cabin. 

She heard Ortez starting to get supper, and she sat up quickly. Withstern control she forced herself to seem composed and quiet, whilewithin her passions raged like a tornado. Self-contempt, wonder, amazement, pity for her husband, for Lawrence, and hatred for PhilipOrtez swept round and round in her brain like a maelstrom. 

She stepped through her curtain and said gaily: "You're preempting myprivilege, Philip. "

He laughed. "I thought perhaps you were tired, " he said. 

"She ought to be, " remarked Lawrence from his chair, and in her presentstate she imagined in his voice a tenderness, a worry for her, and adistrust of her. 

She took up the kettle, and hung it on its hook in the fireplace. "Inever in my life imagined myself cooking over an open fire in this way, "she said as she turned toward the little storeroom adjoining. 

"You like it?" Philip asked carelessly. 

She felt sure that his eyes had read her heart and that he was lookingtoward the future, his future with the wanton mistress he had found. 

She could have screamed, "I hate you! I hate you!" but she said only, "It's great fun for a while; I wouldn't fancy it as a permanent thing. "

"It surely must be different from the conveniences of your home. "

"Rather, " she laughed as she began cutting from the smoked meat thathung in the storeroom. 

Now it was Lawrence who was speaking. "I guess she'd surprise us if wecould supply her with a chafing-dish. I'd like to see her at work overone in my studio with the bunch around waiting hungrily for results. "

Would these men never stop saying things that made her want to scream?What was the matter, that all at once the beauty of her day should besmashed into a discolored memory of self-hatred? Was there nothing inall the world but sordid thoughts of oneself and of men who, causingthem, said things to make them worse?

After they had eaten she went to bed as soon as possible, leaving themen to smoke before the fire. She had pleaded weariness, and they hadlaughingly told her to get to sleep. They were out there now, talking insubdued tones so as not to disturb her--as if their voices did not ringthrough her suffering mind like clarions of evil! What should they sayif she should suddenly spring before them and shout out her mad fancies?For a moment she had the wildest of impulses to laugh aloud, thensuddenly she turned on her face as she recalled the emotion that hadswept her when she saw Philip looking at her over Lawrence's head. Sleepfinally stopped her tears. 

The two men went to bed, and there was silence in the cabin. Lawrencewas smiling, as he felt Philip's body there beside him in the darkness. "I could kill you now, " he was thinking ironically, "and end allquestion of your loving Claire. "

Philip, too, was awake. He had seen the hot flush that came intoClaire's face that evening, and he knew that she had been troubledduring the supper. He wondered if she were ill. Then suddenly he askedhimself, "Is she in love with one of us?" He immediately tried todismiss the thought as unworthy of her. She was not the kind of womanto forget her marriage vows. But what a home she could make for the manshe loved! If he had only known her in time!

But there was still friendship--yes, surely she could give that. Complete understanding and perfect sympathy would be the basis of alasting attachment. "Who knows?" he pondered. "It may be that fate hassent her to me to teach me what a great self-denying love can be. InClaire I may find my dream-star again. "

CHAPTER X. 

HOW SIMPLE THE SOLUTION!

When Claire awoke the next morning her whole being seemed gathered intoa tense strain that made her feel as though the least thing might snapthe taut nerves in her body and leave her broken and stranded on somefar, emotional shoal. Her heart beat unevenly, while her lips and handsfelt dry and hot, as if she had spent hours in a desert wind. She didnot experience the bitter anguish of the night before; such storms aretoo wild to last, but it had left her deadly heavy within, and she wasunable to recover her usual calm. 

One great determination dominated her, to prevent these men, at anycost, from knowing her real feelings. It was a determination born out ofthe sheer force that was carrying her on, a struggle that came from thevery strength of the tide she sought to resist. 

She had been awakened by a sudden and clear image, the result of herunsettled mind. Her husband was beside her, leaning over the bed andlooking down at her with a great love and a greater pity shining in hiseyes. She thought that she had thrown up her arms to close about himwith the frantic joy of a rescued person, only to have them meet inempty air and fall listless at her sides again. 

Beyond the curtain she heard Philip saying cheerfully: "It is a greatday outside, one of Claire's days for play. "

"Good!" Lawrence answered. "We'll go out, then, and play. "

A rush of self-pity, anger against her situation, fear of she knew notwhat, and a gnawing desire to escape blended in her thoughts, while herheart warmed at the sound of Lawrence's words. 

"Oh, " she thought, "I can never, never stand this day!"

She got out of bed and began to dress, her nervous hands fumbling at thebuttons on her clothes. Her eyes, deeper and shadowed in dark rings, stared vacantly at the white canvas before her. Lawrence was talkingagain, and she listened. Presently he started across the room and bumpedinto a chair. The incident was one which had become long familiar toher, and ordinarily she would have thought nothing of it, but thismorning she flushed with sudden anger that a chair should have been leftin his way. Then she realized that she was foolish, stepped through thecurtain, and said before she thought:

"Lawrence, I do wish that you'd look where you are going!"

He laughed merrily. "So do I, " he rejoined. "For some years failure todo so has kept me with at least one skinned shin. But just think of thecost of stockings had I been blind as a boy!"

Suddenly she had a vivid picture of him as a ragged, little fellow, stumbling about through his unfathomable darkness, bumping into thingsand leaving jagged holes in his child's black stockings. Whether shewanted to laugh or cry she did not know, but a great, warm surge ofmotherliness came over her for the child she imaged, and she said aloud, "Poor little urchin!"

Philip turned and looked at her, smiling. "It would have been a pictureindeed, " he said. 

"I had enough troubles during my rebellious childhood at the orphanagewithout adding imaginary woes, " Lawrence went on, amusedlyretrospective. "I remember one day when I was at the awkward stage. Iwas all dressed for church and happened to stumble over another boylying in the grass. I fell against a bench, my trousers caught on aprojecting nail, and ripped dreadfully. The matron gave me a scoldingand sent me to bed for the day. "

"Brought up in an orphanage!" thought Claire. "No wonder he ispessimistic. "

"I didn't mind missing church, " Lawrence continued; "but it struck me asa piece of gross injustice that I should be punished for a boy's lack ofmuscular coordination. I've experienced the same fate over my blindness. It seems to be a special trick people have, and they play itincessantly. I should think it would get as tiresome to them by and byas it did to me some years ago. "

Claire felt as if she were included in his casual criticism of mankind, and wondered just how she had been addicted to the practise. A dozendifferent instances came to her, and she felt very penitent. 

"It's because we're all so thoughtless, " she said. 

"Perhaps. I rather choose to state it differently. It's for the samereason that I do thousands of things, because I'm more interested inmyself than I am in any one else. I'm selfish, and so is the rest ofhumanity. "

"But we aren't deliberately so, " Philip protested. "Isn't it rather thatwe are short-sighted and unimaginative?"

"It may be. The end is the same. If I am too short-sighted, toounimaginative to know how a fellow being feels, I can do nothing butblunder along. He may be hurt by me. I may do him an injustice, I mayeven cheat him of his chance at life, but it can't be helped, and againthe result amounts to my being selfish. "

As she worked over her biscuit dough, Claire listened to their talkresentfully. She wished they would keep still, but she said nothing. They went ahead, demonstrating, she thought bitterly, the truth ofLawrence's argument. 

"I suppose mankind generally does the best it can, " Philip saidthoughtfully. "If you ask a man, if you really talk with him, you willfind him kindly, inclined to be generous, and willing to do what he canfor another. I have always found that true. "

"So have I, in a way. He is kindly, he is inclined to be generous, andhe is willing to do what he can for another. The trouble is, he makes amaudlin sentiment of his kindliness, a self-flattering charity of hisgenerous inclinations, and is unable to do what he can for anotherbecause he is quite sincerely persuaded that he can't do anything. "

"My friend, I have had men help me when it cost them trouble to do it. We all have. Without it, we would none of us accomplish anything ofvalue. "

"I, too, have had them help me, from the lending of money down toguiding me across a traffic-blurred street, but I have never yet foundmore than three or four whose imagination was keen enough and whosejudgment clear enough to give me a square deal at living. "

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the same man who will help me across the street, lend memoney, and be a splendid comrade, stops short when he comes to the fieldof self-support. He will say sympathetically, 'I don't see how you cando it, ' or 'I admire your grit, old man, and I'd like to see you do it, 'and then begin scheming around to direct my interests, aspirations, andefforts into some other channel from where I want them, as though, outof his own great wisdom, he knew much better than I what a blind mancould do. If you want to learn just how small the imagination of mankindis and how obstructive to progress is their fool good-heartedness, goamong them as a capable mind with a physical handicap. You'll size themup, yourself included, as the most blindly wall-butting set ofblundering organisms that ever felt their way through an endlesslyobstructed universe. "

"Breakfast!" Claire broke in with an unwonted sharpness in her tone. "And do let the biscuits stop the argument. "

They laughed and sat down to a silent meal. When it was ended, and themen took their cigarettes to the fireplace, she said: "I wish you wouldboth do me a favor to-day. "

"We will! Name it!" They spoke at the same time. 

She turned toward them with an earnestness which she had scarcely meantto betray. 

"Go out, both of you, and leave me here alone a while. "

Lawrence was silent. Her words and her tone sent a sharp pain throughhim, and he wondered if she were ill. He wanted to say something to her, started to do so, checked himself, and laughed embarrassedly. 

Philip stared at her. He noticed the pale face and the dark rings underher eyes. 

"Why, certainly, " he said, and rose. "You aren't looking well, Claire. Is anything seriously wrong?" He looked at her again with the sameunconsciously tender warmth in his eyes. 

She saw it, flushed angrily, wanted to scream at him, and said simply, "No, I just want to think, and want it quiet. You two talk too muchabout yourselves and about things that you don't understand. "

"Very true"--Lawrence also had risen--"if I did understand them, I'dshow humanity how to stop being animals and be men. "

"While as it is, " she said nervously, "you allow them to blunder alongand help the good work out by making plenty of trouble for them by yourown blind shortness of vision. "

He stood, wondering at her. How had he unintentionally hurt her, andwhat exactly did she mean?

Philip laughed heartily. "A just judgment on him for his sorry view ofthe world, " he commented, opening the door. 

"We'll tramp back into the hills, " he said to Lawrence when they wereboth outside, "and see what there is of deficient imagination in them. "

"There isn't, " Lawrence said quietly; "they and the ocean aretestimonials to the real potential power of an otherwise very faultyartist. "

Left alone, Claire worked furiously at setting the house to rights. Hernervous state led her to throw herself into the work with an energy thatkept her from thinking. She sought for things to do with the desperationof a person whose only escape from the furies that followed him is utterphysical exhaustion. When the cabin had been arranged and rearrangeduntil there was no possible excuse for further effort, she took herheavy man's coat from its place and stepped out upon the snow-coveredplateau before the house. 

Along its edges the lake shone milk-white in the sun, while farther outthe ice glinted a clear, watery blue that made a gleaming jewel set inthe sparkling snow around it. She stood gazing across the ice to theforest beyond. Its still beauty crept over her, and she breathed deeplyof the cold, crisp air. Her head ached dully, and her chest felt tightas though trying to expand beyond its limit to make room for the troublethat filled her being. After standing motionless for a few moments, shestarted briskly across the snow toward the far side of the lake. Shewalked carefully over the ice and into the trees beyond. In her mind wasone thought, to escape--but escape from what? From herself, sheanswered, and then suddenly, with a panicky bursting of the tension, shethought that is done only through death. 

She stopped and let the word "death" fill her mind, as a word sometimesdoes, growing and growing until its increasing weight oppresses thebrain with a sense of physical pressure. "Death"--is it an escape? Shetried to imagine herself dead, and failed. She could find no adequateimage to express oblivion, and she gave up trying, while she began towonder if she actually were immortal, and if she were, what would shesay to herself beyond the edge of life?

She thought of herself as standing, naked of soul, unbodied, in some faretherealized atmosphere, and she shuddered. "I would still be Claire, loving these two men and fearing a third. " Tears crept down her cheeks. No, she did not want to be immortal and have no escape from herself. 

If she would only be able to endure the months still remaining beforeshe got home, then everything would be settled. But would it? Did shewant Lawrence to go out of her life, did she want to lose him? She couldhave him still as a friend, her home open to him always, her husband asglad to welcome him as she herself--yes, that would be best. 

She was walking again now, rapidly, thinking as she moved, and it allseemed very clear to her. She would tell her husband how Lawrence hadsuffered, how brave he had been, and how he had carried her on and on, when death seemed inevitable. Howard would owe Lawrence a tremendousdebt of gratitude, and would make existence easier for him. Lawrence hadhad a hard life, his bitter attitude showed that he deserved a lessobstructed road, and she would give it to him. In their home all threewould talk, laugh, and be, oh, so happy, while Lawrence could workbetter with his studio near her, perhaps in her own house where carecould be taken of him. He would create great art there, and hisbitterness would end. She would show him that her husband wasunderstanding and imaginative. Again she stopped suddenly. 

But Lawrence--would he accept? He was so independent, so doggedlydetermined to fight his life out while his very battling made himironical and darkly pessimistic. She tried to imagine him agreeing toher plan, and instead she heard him say, "I'm sorry, Claire, but I can'tdo it. I've got to go it alone and win or go under. I can't accept thecharity you offer me in place of love. Gratitude, I know, prompts you, but you owe me nothing, you paid your debt by being eyes for me. No, ifwe can't be lovers, we can't be anything else. I know my limitations. "

Why had she put in that about "lovers"? He had never said anything tolead her to think he would say that. She answered herself that it wasbecause she would want him to say it. And if he did say it, what wouldshe answer? She would say--no, she couldn't do that--she would want tosay, "Then let us be lovers!" But that was impossible. In her ownhusband's home!

And what would she think of Philip when she was again in her old world?He, also, was deserving of gratitude. She stamped her foot in the snow. She hated him, hated him, and he would drop out of her life, utterly andforever. She would be glad when she saw the last of him with hisseductive eyes. Those eyes--why did he, and not Lawrence, have them?They should have been Lawrence's. It was one more instance of theendless ironic humor of the universe. 

Lawrence--Lawrence and her husband! She turned wearily back toward thecabin. 

It was nearly noon when she reached home again, and Lawrence, a worriedlook on his face, was standing in the door of the cabin. 

"You beat me back, " Claire said, as she approached, and her heart leapedat the look of relief that came into his face. 

"Claire, you ought to be punished, " he said in gay, tender tones. 

"What sentence would you pass, Mr. Judge?" she questioned. 

He stepped out toward her. 

"Perhaps your fate needs a good washing in cold snow, " he laughed. 

"Perhaps it does, " she said, caressingly. "Do you think you couldadminister it?"

"I know I could. "

He stooped and took up a handful of snow. 

She did the same and said gaily, "Two washed faces seem inevitable. "

Lawrence laughed and caught her around the waist. Her blood tingled, andher throat hurt as if she would choke. She began to struggledesperately, frightened at her own emotion. He laughed, and held hertighter with one arm while he tried to reach her face with the otherhand. She was pressed against him, and they swayed back and forth, whilePhilip laughed from the doorway. Her heart was beating trip-hammer blowsagainst her breast, she gasped for breath, and her eyes closed. His handreached her face, and she ducked against his shoulder. 

"Lawrence! Lawrence!" she sobbed. Her voice startled him. Its pleading, yielding intensity sent his own blood racing. He let her go, and steppedback quickly while his breath came short. 

"Pardon me, Claire, " he muttered, and turned away. 

Claire saw Philip watching them, in his eyes a strange, new glitter. Sherushed past him to the cabin and into her little room. 

It was a silent dinner they ate that day. 

Claire was deeply, bitterly humiliated, and she kept seeing again andagain with exaggerated clearness that look in Philip's eyes when she hadstaggered free from Lawrence's arms. It burned in her mind like anunquenchable coal, and she revolted at it. She was utterly unable tocollect her thoughts. She fancied she could still feel the warm pressureof Lawrence's body while she suffered untold agony of soul for havingbeen carried away by his touch. She reproached herself with a scorn thatseared for having ever allowed herself to engage in that silly scuffle. 

She could scarcely bear to sit at the table with Philip, and she did notonce look in his direction. In her heart there was no anger againstLawrence, only a dull, aching dread, tempered with a longing she did notattempt to analyze. 

Dominating her thought was the one phrase, "Why need Philip have seen?"

That look in his eyes--oh, God! would she have to go on day after dayfacing those eyes that compelled her in spite of herself? Must she feelhis glances burning through her when her soul was filled with hatred forhim? But was it hatred? Surely his eyes, those lights that made hermarvel, were the windows to a high and noble soul. Yes, he was fine, yetshe wished he was not there, that she had never known him. She askedherself if she would rather have perished, and she knew she would not. Better to have lived forever with Philip's eyes piercing into her thanto give up life when Lawrence was with her, needing her, and--shestopped--loving her, yes, loving her. It was true. She remembered hisvoice when he had released her, and thrilled again at the tense note. 

He did love her! And Philip? She felt her heart sink, and then astrange, subtle warmth came over her. It was good to be loved by two menso powerful, so worth while, each in his own way. 

Of course, she could never care for Philip. He was beyond her power tolove; besides her heart was filled with Lawrence. But her husband, yes, she had loved her husband. Her many days of happiness with him provedthat. She could never have lived with him as she had if love had notbeen between them. She must remember that, and be true to him. It wouldbe hard to see Lawrence go out of her life, but it was her duty, sheowed it to herself, to her husband, and to society. 

If she could only get through the remaining months without allowingLawrence to hope! She must not give him another opportunity to want heror to discuss his feelings with her. She would be very, very careful. 

She must plan it as easily for him as possible. The way to accomplishthat was not to be with him. This would necessitate her associating morewith Philip. After all, why shouldn't she? He was good and strong, andnot really in love with her. Of course, he might be, if she allowed it, but she would stop that. She would show him by word, look, and act thatany such love was inconceivable. He would understand and forget hisearlier feeling, for after all he was not yet alive to the situation. Itwas merely circumstances that had brought that look into his eyes. 

Disliking him as she did, it would be hard to associate with him. Shestudied this last problem carefully, and at last arrived at a new stateof mind. She did not dislike him, it was merely the natural unconscioustrend of male and female that she hated. He was not to blame, neitherwas she, and they were, fortunately, beings with mind and will. Theycould use their God-given power to talk it out and face the situation. Then Philip's natural nobility would make the solution easy. They wouldbe on a splendid footing of frank understanding; their foresight wouldhave saved them from a ridiculous and criminal mistake. 

In these mountains she would have found two real friends and a higherground of life. After the first painful talk with Philip they would goout from the cabin, warm comrades, with nothing to regret. 

CHAPTER XI. 

THE MAKING OF A KNIGHT ERRANT. 

Silently, Lawrence rose and went to his work-chair. The zeal with whichhe began to cut his wood showed more clearly than any of them quiteknew, the turbulent state of his mind. He was carried far intospeculative possibilities that shook him with their power. He wasabsolutely in love with Claire, that was undoubted. He knew it, and hewas determined to tell her so. To continue living in this uncertainty, with the memory of her pressed against him always compelling him to putout his arms and draw her again to himself, was intolerable. He wouldspeak, and settle it once for all, nor would he take any compromisingnegative as a reply. That tone she had used could indicate but onething, she loved him, and whether she knew it or not, whether she wantedto know it or not, should not matter. He would argue it out with her, showing her with the inexorable logic back of their whole experience howshe was his, his in spite of her husband, in spite of blindness, inspite of everything. Without her, life was useless, barren, and dead. Hemust have her!

He carved viciously but accurately, while his mind and body yearnedtoward the hour when she would be in his arms, yielding, abandoned, loving. 

Claire watched him from her place at the table in calmness of mind that, following her day of tumult, she could not understand. Peace, the peacethat comes when one thinks he has settled something forever, was hers. 

"Philip, " she said, "our artist has buried himself in his work. Shall wego forth on a chance adventure?"

Lawrence choked back a whirl of jealous suspicion that swept to hislips, and said from his corner, "Do! I'll have a surprise for yourreturn. "

He wanted to say, "No, stay here, Claire. I wish to tell you something, to make you see that I love you, that this Philip is not for you, thathe is outside our real lives, " but his tongue refused to obey his will. 

"It sounds inviting, " said Philip, rising. "Suppose we do. "

They were gone. 

Lawrence worked savagely, his mind grasping at impossible thoughts whichkept struggling for expression. He was afraid, afraid till it chilledhim, lest, after all, she loved Philip. If her voice had sounded sointense that noon, it had been because she resented his holding herwhile her real lover looked on. 

Meanwhile Claire and Philip tramped through the pines in silence. Shewas wondering why she had come. She hesitated before speaking to him asshe had determined. Perhaps he would be hurt at her imagining he couldthink of making any advances to a married woman, he would feel that shehad suspected and accused him of a thing of which he was incapable. 

Speech was difficult, so she trudged along, feeling very uncomfortable. Her heart ached as she saw again the lonely look on Lawrence's facebending over his work back there in the cabin. 

"The adventure is slow in coming, " Philip said, genially. 

"Perhaps we don't know how to find it, " she answered, not heeding herwords especially. "To find adventure, one must be awake topossibilities. "

"True, " he mused, looking at her. "So much depends on a man'sexperience, knowledge, and imagination. "

"I suppose life itself may set us, even calmly walking here, in theheart of an adventure. "

"I have no doubt it does, " he said. 

Claire looked at him in faint alarm. 

"Why, " she stammered, "I didn't imagine it was true when I spoke. "

"To him who has faith, the wildest dreams are always possibilities. "

"Do you believe that, Philip?"

"I have found it to be quite true. I often dreamed of good company herein my wilderness and a charming woman about my cabin. It has happened. "

"But even that has its very strong drawbacks, hasn't it?"

"What, for example?" He looked at her, earnestly. 

"Oh, " she hesitated, laughed, and said, "the rapidly depleted foodsupply, your time for thought broken, and all the rest. "

"One sometimes finds a relief from thought very agreeable. "

She wanted to laugh at the force with which his words struck her. "I'msure that depends on the thought, as Lawrence would say, " she answered, smiling. 

"It does. And there is nothing I would not give to escape from mypresent thoughts. " His voice was pitched low. 

Her heart failed her, but she said bravely, "Perhaps you need aconfessor, Sir Philip. "

"I do, a gracious one, who can listen well. "

"Then a woman would never serve, " Claire laughed. "She would want totalk, you know. "

Philip stopped, and looked at her. As far as he could see, she was calm, indifferent, the lady making talk. 

"Perhaps, " he said, lightly. "They have that reputation, I know. "

"Now, I"--she laughed--"I, also, need a confessor. "

"You?" His look searched her, incredulously. "What in the name of allthe saints have you to confess?"

"Oh! Many things. Misunderstandings, social follies, mistakes incharacter reading, mean thoughts, lots of things. "

"Absurd!" His tone was amused. "Who of us is not a sinner in thosethings?"

"But suppose, " she ventured, hesitant--"suppose I had misjudged you?Suppose I had suspected you of things you were not at all guilty of?"

"I should be sorry if you told me of them. "

It was impossible, she thought, to go on. He would indeed be sorry, andhow foolish she had been! But what had he meant a moment before?

"Is your confession worse?" she asked. 

"I think so. A man is so apt to be a mad fool, " he said, and lapsed intosilence. 

They walked some distance before either spoke. Then Claire laughedsuddenly. "Philip, " she said, "we all three need a change of scene. "

He turned, and his face was crimson as he looked at her. "It will behere soon. We can go out in April. "

He had answered her dully, with a heavy sadness in his voice. It was hergolden opportunity; and she took it. 

"Splendid!" she cried--"splendid! I so want to get back to my husband. Iam scarcely able to wait at all. "

"I suppose, " he said, "it seems a long time that you have beenseparated. "

"Oh, so long, " she answered, softly. "And I do so want him. "

He walked on, slowly. "I shall miss you very much. "

Her manner and expression were those of a pleased, frank child when sheanswered. "Really, I was so afraid I had been stupid company, and I oweso much to you. My husband will want to come clear back here to thankyou for your winter's hospitality. "

"It would hardly be worth his while. The debt is more than paid. "

"I shall be sorry--in a way, " she went on. "We have become such goodfriends, such good comrades with not the least bit of unpleasantness toremember. I shall always be glad of that. "

"Yes, " he said. "I am glad, indeed, that you feel so. "

"If any one had ever told me that I should find so rare a gentlemanhere"--she laughed--"I would have thought they were talking medievalgallantry. "

"Thank you. A gentleman is always himself when a lady is a lady. "

Claire flushed a little, and said nothing. 

"I shall remember you with pleasure and regret, " continued Philip, hishead high. 

Her eyes opened wide, like a child's. "Oh, with regret, too?"

"Yes. Regret that you did not come to my cabin sooner, freer, and tostay longer. "

"You are a consummate flatterer, Philip, " she chided. 

"I suppose it seems artificial; one can scarcely imagine that I shouldbe in earnest, " he said, a little bitterly. 

Her conscience hurt her, though she did not know why. She could havesaid those things before and thought nothing of them. Why did she feelsorry now?

"I didn't mean that, " she said, earnestly. "Believe me, I did not. "

"No, " he replied, "you answered out of mere indifference. "

"But I am not indifferent to you, Philip. I like you very much. " She wasafraid she had hurt his feelings, and she, herself, was so tense, sotroubled, that she was uncertain of her emotional attitudes these days. She felt that somehow she had been cruel and very ungracious toward theman to whom she owed so much. 

"I know, " he said, "one is interested, of course, in a novel, foreignmountaineer. "

She was beginning to feel achy, and tears were near the surface. 

"Philip, why do you misunderstand me?" she cried. "It isn't that at all. I like you for the man you are. "

He smiled sadly. "And did it ever occur to you that I might love you forthe woman you are?" he said suddenly, his good resolutions all gone. 

She stopped and her breath quickened. Over her rushed a tide of fear, regret, sorrow. Even then she wondered that it was pity and not angerwhich moved her. 

"I do not believe that. How could you?" she said swiftly. 

"You cannot even conceive of my loving you?"

"I--I can, Philip--it isn't that, I--I"--she was floundering among herown emotions--"I can under other circumstances, different conditions. Oh, don't you see--think of"--she had almost said "Lawrence, " buthastily substituted--"my husband. "

"I have thought of him. From the day you came, he has haunted myfootsteps. But after all, he thinks you are dead. "

"But I love him. Think of that, too. "

"Oh, Claire, Claire, I have seen you when I felt perhaps youmight--might learn to love me. "

"Philip, it is impossible!" she cried. "Please don't let's spoileverything now. I so wanted to be just friends. "

His faced kindled and his deep eyes glowed with a fire that bothterrorized and fascinated her. 

"We cannot be that, Claire. " His voice vibrated with growing passion. They stood, facing each other, and she trembled like a reed in the wind. 

"I saw you this morning in his arms, " he was tense and speaking rapidly, "and I knew then that I loved you. Loved you with all the soul of me. Icould have killed him, I tell you. Claire, Claire, I love you! You mustnot deny me love. "

She did not, could not answer, her tongue refused to move, and her dry, hot mouth felt as if she would smother. She looked into his eyes andsaid nothing, while she shook violently. 

"Claire!" he cried. "Claire! I love you!" His arms closed around herand he held her tightly. His eyes burned into her own with a flame thatwas contagious in its intensity. She gasped, trembled, and did notstruggle, though in her mind she was crying, anguished, "Lawrence!Lawrence!"

He pressed her more tightly, and his body against her own stirred in hera passion beyond the control of will. Her eyes lighted warmly and thenclosed. She felt suffocated, weak, and her senses reeled. His head bent, and his lips were pressed fiercely against her own parted ones, stoppingthe cry that rose to her throat. He held her fast, keeping his lipsagainst her own until she felt her strength giving. She half leanedagainst him, letting the weight of her body sink into his arms. 

A savage joy sprang into his eyes. She opened her own and saw. Throwingup her hands wildly, she struck his face, twisted her body free, andshoving him from her, stood, white, defiant, and determined. 

She was not angry with Philip, only with herself, but the storm ofself-reproach that swept over her burst into bitter, scorching wordsagainst him. 

"You, you coward! You dare to touch me, to take me that way! If I hadonly known what sort of a thing you were, you, you viper! Oh, to be herewith you!"

His dark eyes flashed with sudden rage, and he moved to seize her. Shestood defiantly before him, her white face cold as outraged chastityitself, and his anger died. Into his face came the dejected, sufferinglook of a man whose passion ebbs before the compelling force of awoman's scorn. 

"Forgive me, Claire, " he moaned, "forgive me. I was mad, mad. "

She knew he was sincere, and she smiled sadly. 

"I know, Philip, " she said. "I understand, but you must realize that itis impossible. Won't you see that? It was, perhaps, partly my fault. Forgive me if it was, and let us be friends. Philip, I want a friend, "she continued. "I need one, a big, strong man whom I can trust, whom Iknow to be my loyal friend and my husband's friend. "

He put out his hand, shame and love mingling in his face. 

"I will be that friend, Claire, " he said, earnestly. 

She took his hand, her mind breaking with relief. She felt she was goingto cry, and she leaned forward to hide her filling eyes. 

"Oh, Philip, God bless you! You do not know what this means to me! Youwill never know. I thank you, I thank you!"

The tears rushed down her cheeks and dropped upon their clasped hands. 

"Claire, don't, please--please don't, " Philip pleaded, anguish in histone. 

She stopped, forced back her sobs, and smiled at him. 

"Philip Ortez, " she said, "I shall make you glad of this. "

Deep in his heart, the words gave him hope. He grasped at them as adrowning man at a life-belt, but he did not voice the hope. 

"I want to spend much of my time with you, Philip, in the out-of-doors. I must do it, and it is such a relief to know that I can do itwithout--without fear. You will be just my friend, won't you?"

"If it is in my power, I will. " He spoke as a knight of old, taking aholy vow, and in his heart was the deep, sacred sense of the spirit thatstill moved in his idealistic soul. 

Claire laughed joyously, almost hysterically, with the peace that cameover her at the sound of his words. She was sure that all was well. Ifshe had known that already he was building on the promise of frequentdays alone, she would have been more afraid than ever. But she did notknow that, neither did she know that in her very promise she waspreparing a more difficult situation for her own struggle with herselfthan any she had ever faced in her life. She was only aware of thecrisis passed and the peace that was now hers. 

"Let us go back, " she said gaily. 

They found Lawrence smoothing his little carved child with a stone. Claire was effervescent with joy. Her great plan seemed sure ofsuccess, and she greeted him with a gaiety that was as abnormal as herdespondency had been before. 

"Lawrence, " she cried, "we have had such a walk! And here you havefinished for us this beautiful cherub as the symbol of our little home. "

Her words stung him with savage pain, filling him with a great fear bornof love and jealousy. For a minute he did not know what he was doing orsaying, and he was scarcely aware of the words that fell from him. 

"Cherubs are said to be symbols of the greatest love. " He laughedtonelessly. "It belongs to you, Claire. Take it. "

The child was carved standing upon a stump with wings outspread. In theform and face of the figure there was so much of benevolence, love, andcharity that the imaginative power of this blind artist filled Clairewith awe. She stood reverently before it, her heart singing with pridein the handiwork of the man she loved. She interpreted his words as aconfession that he had carved it for her as a symbol of his love, andshe was humbled before him, before his work. She wanted to throw herselfin his arms and to tell him with the gift of her unreserved self howgrateful she was for his gift, but she only said, very softly, takingboth his hands: "Thank you, Lawrence. "

The words struck his ear with a strangely mixed power in their sound. Hewanted to laugh at the bitter mockery that swept into him. He had madethe image for love of her, and he presented it to her as a symbol of herlove for Philip. It was cruel, but he could endure it. Oh, yes, he wasaccustomed to life's little jokes. He did not answer her thanks, onlygripped her hands in his own capable ones till he hurt her. 

To Philip, the child brought still other suggestions. Moved by hispresent feeling of great, chivalrous guardianship of the woman who hadsaid she needed him, he felt that it was a symbol of the greatsacrificial love which he was privileged to know, and at the same timehe felt that it was a symbol of hope. 

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK. Don't forget this magazineis issued weekly, and that you will get thecontinuation of this story without waiting a month. 

Claire

by Leslie Burton Blades

THE BLIND LOVE OF A BLIND HERO

_BY A BLIND AUTHOR_

This story began in the All-Story Weekly for October 5. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE UNHORSING OF A KNIGHT ERRANT. 

Between men and women who have established what they believe to be anunemotional friendship there nearly always springs up a relationfranker than any which is otherwise possible. Such was the experienceof Philip and Claire during the days that followed. They took many walkstogether, and their conversation grew daily more exclusive and morepersonal. 

Lawrence, through ignorance of their situation and jealousy of Philip, grew daily more dissatisfied. He would hear the intimate ring in theirvoices and writhe within. The artist felt keenly that he was being setaside, and his eager determination to live and be in the front rank ofwarring manhood made him determine to win Claire against this man who, it seemed to him, was taking her from him by mere advantage of sight. Hefelt that they were shelving him as a blind man, a very nice fellow, butquite outside the possibility of any relation with their real lives. Henow thought that Claire was kind to him as one is to those whosesituation makes them objects of pity. 

There were days when he sat alone before the fire in the cabin broodinguntil he was filled with savage hatred of Philip. He would think of allsorts of impossible means of eliminating this Spaniard from Claire'slife; then Philip would come in, talk to him, seem so very normallyfriendly as man to man, that his reason mastered his fancies and helaughed at himself. He ridiculed his own thoughts with an irony thatinwardly grew in bitterness with his growing love for Claire, and hewould end by admitting that Philip was only doing what he himself wouldlike to do. 

In his fair-minded moments he did not blame his friend. "I should be afool to expect him to act differently, " he told himself. "In thisstruggle for meat and mate which we all wage, he is doing what any onewould do. I who am losing must at least be just to him. " He resolved tobe just, and in a little while was again ensnaring himself in his ownnotions. "She is throwing herself away upon this Spaniard, " he thought, "while I sit by. If I were not blind, she would see that after all I amthe better man. I put all my power into the carving of that littlestatue, and she knows it is good, better than anything he has done orcan do, and yet--she loves him. "

He would rise and walk the floor in his tension, knocking into thechairs recklessly. His thoughts would gain speed from his bodilymovement, and soon he would rage against the man whose guest he was, against Claire, against life, fate, and blindness. Then suddenly hisever self-questioning mind would demand of him, "Why are you doingnothing, then?" He did nothing because he could do nothing. That washis answer, no sooner made than contradicted, no sooner contradictedthan to be restated, "I do nothing because I will do nothing. "

Several times he refused to go with them on tramps or skiing trips. Whenthey were gone he would revile himself for his stubbornness and achebecause Claire could not see that he had refused with a petulant boy'shope that she would stay with him. "Why should she stay with me?" Therewas no reason, he told himself, and again he would be off on a mentalwhirlwind that carried him still farther from reason. He becameperpetually sullen, irritable, and discontented. He realized it, thoughtthat Claire would certainly grow to dislike him if he continued sodisagreeable, and with the thought became even more disagreeable. 

Claire, however, was not growing to dislike him. She avoided him inpursuance of her settled policy, but she thought of him all the more. 

One morning when she and Philip were out in the pines together, sheobserved, casually, "Lawrence doesn't seem to be doing any work thesedays. "

Philip glanced at her carelessly. "Yes. I'm very sorry for the poorfellow. "

His pity angered her a little. Lawrence did not need his sympathy. "Ithink he must be feeling badly, " she replied. 

"I believe he is moody by nature. "

"Oh, do you? I hadn't thought so, " she objected. 

"It is not strange, " Philip went on; "he is so limited by his blindnessand so ambitious that the effect is almost sure to be a disgruntledmind. He cannot hope to overcome his blindness, and he ought to realizeit. I think that is the cause of his odd philosophy. He certainly wouldbe happier if he could get a more sunlit view of things. He needsoptimism, and he ought to practise it. "

For a moment, Claire was silent. She was not willing to admit thatLawrence was unable to conquer blindness or even that his beliefs werealtogether wrong. She had more often disagreed with him than not, butnow for some reason she found herself desiring to support hisconvictions. 

"I don't agree with you, " she answered Philip, a little shortly. 

"Well then, what is my lady's diagnosis?" He had not noticed her curtreply, for he was thinking of something else and was not reallyinterested in Lawrence as a topic of conversation. 

Claire was unable to answer; she disliked both his tone and hisexpression, but she had nothing to substitute for his explanation. 

They walked on in silence for a few minutes through the trees before sheventured a little lamely, "I don't know what to say. "

Philip looked up, smilingly. "To say about what, Claire?" Then heremembered, and continued hastily, "Oh, pardon me. I know, of course. About Lawrence. If I could suggest anything to do, I would. He is aninteresting friend, but I have nothing to offer. It seems to me that wecan do no more than to let him alone. He will work it out for himself. If he does not, we cannot help. He would not expect us to do so. "

"That's no reason we shouldn't try, " she flashed, "unless, of course, you quite agree with his argument after all. "

Philip colored slightly and said, "I admit the fault, Claire, but whatcan we do?"

"Couldn't you get him to tell what's the matter?" she asked, groping forsomething to say. 

"No more than you could. Perhaps even less easily. You know him betterthan I and understand him better. "

She laughed, a little satisfaction warming her at his words. "SometimesI think I understand him, sometimes I know I don't. As he himself wouldsay, it is merely a matter of blind psychology, is it not?"

"It is not, " she answered positively. "It's more a matter of artistpsychology, I think. "

"Perhaps, " he admitted; "certainly the combination is difficult. "

"I do wish we could do something for him. "

"He would be better off if he would come out with us, but since he willnot, he will not. " Philip's tone showed clearly that he was inclined tolet the matter drop. 

But not so Claire. "You are willing to help me, aren't you, Philip?"

"Why yes, if there is any way in which I can be of service. "

"We might stay and talk with him more. "

"That is useless, I fear, " he said abruptly, his own wishes revoltingagainst sacrificing his companionship with Claire or against sharing itwith Lawrence. 

"He was unhesitating in his care for me those days we wandered, " sheremarked simply. 

"Pardon me again. I forgot for the time that you owed him anything. "

"He doesn't consider that I owe him anything. It's simply that I wanthim to be as happy as possible shut up here with us away from his ownkind of life. "

"Oh!" Philip looked at her thoughtfully. "Do you think he could behappier with other people?"

"I'm afraid so, " she answered, a little regretfully. 

Philip's eyes searched her face. "I should think you could satisfy anyone's need for companionship, " he said, quietly. 

"Don't flatter, Philip. That was a very silly speech. "

"Was it? It was not flattery at any rate. It is my feeling about you. "

"Please, " she said, stopping, "let's not go into that again. "

"Very well, but why cannot my lady extend her charity? There are otherunfortunates besides Lawrence who have troubles to face. "

"Oh, Philip, you really haven't any troubles. You merely imagine youhave. "

He laughed, a little bitterly. "I suppose a life's happiness is a smallthing. "

"It isn't, Philip, " she protested. "But you can get out and tramp andtrap and see things, and, after all, you don't really love me as youthought you did. We've settled all that. "

"I know we have, " he agreed. "That is, you have. "

She looked him over, angrily. "So this is the outcome! I ask you tothink of another person who needs our care, and you disregard him foryour own little troubles!"

Philip looked down and flushed crimson. "Well, it does seem as if Iwere selfish. I am afraid I am. But I do not mean to be. I can talk tohim if you wish. "

"You needn't, " she said, angered still more. "It isn't charity I'masking you to bestow on him. He doesn't need that, and you ought to knowit. "

She had laid more emphasis than she intended on the word "he, " andPhilip's face darkened. 

"I see, " he said coldly. "It is I after all to whom you are charitable. Thank you. "

Tears of vexation came to Claire's eyes. "Oh, I do wish you'd bereasonable, " she said, half angrily, half pleadingly. "Don't youunderstand that I am giving you more frank friendship than ever I gaveany man in my life? Isn't that of any value to you? Don't you realizehow unfair you have been to Lawrence?"

His face grew suddenly white, as he said, "Do you love him, Claire?"

She did not look away from him. "If I did, would it concern you?"

He took one step toward her, then stopped. 

"Yes, it would, " he answered. 

Her anger almost mastered her, but she controlled herself. 

"Philip, are we two irrational animals going to spoil everything? I hadhoped you might at least allow our companionship to live. "

He looked at her without answering. Finally, he choked, "Don't--don't, Claire, I have the right to know. "

"If I promise to tell you when there is anything to tell, will you besatisfied?" She felt no scruple of conscience at her pretense ofindifference to Lawrence, only a sense of protection for him. She didnot know from what she was protecting him, but the feeling gave her astrange pleasure. 

"I will, " Philip returned, simply. 

"And in the mean time will you help me pull him out of his slough ofdespond?" she asked, smiling with the old, frank, intimate manner. 

"Surely I will, though I confess I do not see the way. "

"Then shall we go at once and begin our cheering process, my friend?"she said, as though she were conferring a favor by the use of the word. 

He winced at her immediate application of his promise. 

"Perhaps we would better, " he answered sadly, and turned toward thecabin. 

As she walked by his side she had already dismissed him from herattention and was busy planning what she might do to make Lawrencehappy. 

When they entered the cabin, Claire looked eagerly about the room. Asshe glanced around, her face clouded. Lawrence was gone. His coat andhat were not on the rack, and the cane which he had carved one day froma stick which she had brought him from the woods was also missing. 

Claire walked slowly into the room, her mind filled with anunaccountable apprehension. 

"Why, how abandoned the place seems without Lawrence! Where is he, Iwonder?" She tried to appear casual. 

Philip followed her in and placed a chair for her. His mind, alreadytouched with the potential jealousy that Claire's talk had begun, leapedahead at her words and he felt more than ever doubtful of her attitudetoward Lawrence. Though he quickly dispelled his fear, the thought leftbehind, as such things do, the readier soil for a stronger weed tospring up in. 

"He has gone out for a walk, I suppose. Doubtless, he will be backsoon. " His voice was indifferent. "Will you not sit down, Claire? Youstand there looking about you as though you had lost something. "

She was on the point of saying she had, but checked herself, andaccepted the chair. 

"It's so unusual. He never did this before. " Claire forced a smile. 

"Well, he will be the better for it; I am glad that he has gone out, "Philip answered. 

"I know, but it is so difficult for him to find his way through thesnow, " she said. "He told me it muffles sounds until he is almosthelpless in it. His feet can't feel the ground, and he doesn't knowwhich way to turn. "

"He cannot possibly go far, and he cannot get lost. " Philip's tone wasbecoming a little edged. 

"All the same, it worries me to have him out this way. "

Philip started toward the door. 

"Shall I go search for him?" His voice, unknown to himself, was heavy. 

Claire glanced at him quickly. Her intuition told her he was jealous, and she saw he was angry. She wanted to shout at him, "Go findLawrence!" and she was surprised at the sudden panicky nervousness thatseized her. But she rose calmly and crossed to the fireplace, saying asshe sat down, "No, thank you; I think he is able to take care ofhimself. "

Philip also seated himself. 

"I think he is, " he said. "Certainly he thinks so, and comes near enoughto proving his assertion. "

She was both angry and pleased with his words. 

"I never saw a man less handicapped by misfortune, " she remarked. 

"He does do very well. "

"Lawrence seems all capable sense-nerves, and he is so very efficientwith his touch. What a keen appreciation of beauty he has!"

"I think he does remarkably well. "

"In the hills he used to describe scenes to me, and do it accuratelyjust from their sound; running water and wind in the trees, " she wenton, not noticing Philip's short replies. 

"Yes, that is quite surprising. "

"He certainly has taught me a great deal about blindness. "

"Association with him does do that. "

"Do you know, I believe he is one of the most unusual men I have everknown. "

Philip rose quickly. 

"Doubtless. He is not the only topic of conversation our friendshippermits, is he, Claire?"

She looked up at him, and rose immediately, her eyes flashing. 

"I think you are more selfish with your theories of altruism than hewith his egoism. "

Philip looked quietly back at her. 

"Perhaps I am where the woman I love is concerned. "

Claire turned away and walked angrily toward her room. 

"I see you can't maintain a friendship, " she exclaimed. 

"Meaning, you cannot. " Philip's voice was bitter. 

She turned quickly and looked at him. 

"What do you mean?" she asked him, fearing. 

"I mean that you are unfair. You ask me not to talk of my love, you wishto talk friendship, while you are forcing me by your every word and actto think of my own misery. "

Claire stood aghast before him. His words seemed to her to be anaccusation so grossly false that she was stunned beyond anger. 

"I don't understand, " she said anxiously. 

"You ought to understand. I love you, I cannot help but love you, fightit as I will. You say you cannot love me because of your husband. Yetyour talk is not of your husband, but of this blind man. You say youdesire friendship, yet you allow me all that a woman allows her acceptedsuitor. "

Claire was appalled. She stared at him in amazement, faltering. 

"Why, Philip, I--what is the matter? I don't do any such thing. "

He laughed. 

"Of course not, " he replied. "You look at me with that warm light inyour eyes, because you think I am not human. I am a mere duenna, achaperon, perhaps. "

She sank into a chair and covered her face. "I didn't think, " shemoaned, and could say no more. A thousand memories of her intimatetreatment of Philip swept through her mind. She had considered him asone of her own family, without thought, without intent, because she hadbelieved so strongly in his assurance of friendship. After a pause, shegathered her thoughts. 

"Philip, I may have done as you say, " she spoke slowly, "but it was notbecause I was not conscious of your manhood. It was because I thoughtyou stronger than you are. I believed you could be my friend and not askmore. "

He stood quietly looking at her where she sat. 

"And what of him?" he asked, steadily. 

"I am worried about him because he is blind, nothing more. " She lied, looking straight into his eyes, then rose and stepped behind thecurtain. 

"Claire, " he almost sang. "I am deeply, humbly, a thousand times sorry. You cannot know how your talk of Lawrence made me wild. I am a fool, Iwill admit, but I cannot think of your loving him, blind, selfish, egoistic, intolerant of other people, I cannot. "

"You needn't, " she returned, coldly. Her whole soul was filled withrage. She was recalling that he had said her eyes were alight when shelooked at him, and she told herself that it was not true. 

"Won't you give me a chance to show myself as I am, Claire? I want toprove to you that I am not a selfish beast. "

She thought of Lawrence's cynical view of Philip's sentiments, and shelaughed. 

Philip groaned, and then said again, "Aren't you fair enough to do that, Claire?"

"And what will you read in my eyes next?" she inquired icily. 

"Whatever is there?" he answered. 

"But your imagination spoils your sight, " she returned. 

"Perhaps. I will not deny that I am not myself where you are concerned. But I ask only for one more trial. And I will do my best. "

Claire was growing more and more worried about Lawrence. What could havehappened to him?

"Then go and find Lawrence, " she said suddenly. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

FAINT HEART AND FAIR LADY. 

Claire heard Philip leave the house, and she sat down on her bed to waitand think. It seemed ages that she sat there, her imagination busy witha hundred possible calamities. When she finally heard the door open shewas almost afraid to look. 

"Lawrence!" Her voice was full of warm gladness. 

He was hanging his hat in its place. 

"Hello, Claire. Back, are you?" His voice held the impersonal, sullennote that he used of late. "Where is Philip?"

"Why, didn't he find you?"

Lawrence was immediately angry. He thought, "Why should Philip behunting for me? I don't need his care. Can't I even go out without aguardian?"

"I didn't see him, " he returned, aloud. 

"I sent him to find you. " She was standing looking at him, her wholefigure expressing love and relief at his return. 

He was too angry to catch the fine warmth of her voice, and hisinability to see handicapped him more at that moment than at any time inhis life. 

"I sent him to find you, " she said again. 

"He didn't. I came back as I went, alone. "

"Lawrence, what is the matter with you?" she asked, pleadingly, withtears in her voice. 

He felt the emotion in her words, and was suddenly contrite. If he hadknown it, he was acting like the sentimentalists whom he ridiculed, buthe suffered from the egotist's fate, he did not recognize his ownfailing. 

"I don't know that there is anything the matter, Claire. It angered meto think that you still imagine that because I am blind I need aguardian, " he said, dropping into a chair. 

She came over toward him, impulsively. 

"That isn't the idea at all, " she said, still very worried. "It wassimply that you told me yourself that you were helpless in the snow. "

"I didn't ask to be cared for, " he snapped. 

"I wasn't caring for you--nor about you, " she retorted, in suddenirritation. "I didn't want you to be lost, that's all. "

"I should think you'd be glad to see me gone. " He was a little ashamedof his own words, but he did not try to remedy the speech. 

"What do you mean?"

He smiled ironically. "Even a blind man sometimes sees too much oflovers. "

Claire sank into a chair and struggled against the starting sobs. Itseemed to her that her whole life was becoming one continual argumentwherein she was accused and in return forced to demand explanations. 

"What in the world do you mean?" she faltered. "Are you saying thatPhilip and I are lovers?"

"Aren't you?"

"Of course not! It isn't like you to say that. And what if we were?"

"It wouldn't be any of my business, would it?" He was bitter. 

"I suppose not, " she said, weakly. 

"You needn't be hesitant about admitting it. It's true, " he went on. "Why shouldn't it be? I am a mere piece of excess baggage which you aretoo kind-hearted to eliminate. I know that, too. Why shouldn't youeliminate me?" He smiled, satirically. "If I were Philip Ortez, lovingyou and loved in return, I would feel like killing the blind man, whosepresence hampered. "

She stared at him, wondering if he were in earnest. 

"Then it's fortunate that you haven't the opportunity to feel that way. "

"Obviously. " He laughed, sullenly. "I sha'n't, because you couldn't lovea blind man. "

Claire only sat and looked at him, thrilled with the knowledge that hewas about to tell her he loved her. She was trembling and desperatelyafraid of herself. She moved uneasily, and against her will; her lipssaid, "I could love a blind man, Lawrence. "

He sat up and clenched his hands together quickly. The tone of her voicein itself was a direct confession. But his deep skepticism of blindnesswould not let him believe that he was right. 

"Do you mean that you do love me?" he demanded. 

She wanted to say "Yes, " but she thought of Philip and was afraid ofwhat he might do, should he learn of her lie. Then, too, there was herresolution to go back to Howard. Strange that her long-planned friendlyexplanation of her own attitude did not occur to her, but it did not. 

Lawrence rose and came toward her, his hands out. He was determined toknow, once and for all. The gathering emotion in his breast was growinginto an unbearable pain. 

"Claire, " he said, coming nearer and nearer. "Could you love me?"

His hands were almost to her. She saw them coming; terror, love, happiness, anguish, and the desire to be his paralyzed her will. She didnot move. 

"Yes, " she whispered, "I could. "

He put his arms around her and lifted her until she was crushed againsthim. 

"Do you love me, Claire?" he asked, tensely. 

She did not answer, but her head sank against his shoulder. 

Outside the cabin, she heard Philip's step in the snow. 

"No!" she cried frantically, filled with dread. "No, no! Let me go!"

Lawrence, too, heard, and released her, stepping back indifferently, asthough just going toward a chair. 

The door opened, and Philip entered. 

"Oh, you're back, I see. " The artist was coldly cordial in his greeting. 

"And I see you, which is more important, " Philip laughed. 

"I suppose so. " Lawrence sat down, thoughtfully. "Claire has justscolded me for going out. She doesn't like to have me add to the botherI am already. "

Claire was still under the spell of her own emotion, and she resentedLawrence's sang-froid. He was as cold as a block of stone. Her heartcried out against him because he could not see why she had said "No" tohim, because he believed her! She wanted to cry, but did not dare. 

"I told him we were worried, " she said, indifferently. 

"So we were. " Philip was cheerful and friendly. 

Lawrence buried himself from them both, and sat brooding, clothed in theblackness that blindness brought when it suddenly loomed before him asthe wall between him and his life's desires. The brief instant Clairehad been in his arms had made him feel that his life was intolerablewithout her, and that blindness was the curse of a double living death. She had told him that she did not love him. She had struggled to befree. 

Lawrence failed to read Claire aright because he had not seen her, andbecause his blindness made him uncertain of himself. 

That was the truth of it all, the awful truth of his life. 

He was always uncertain of himself because he was afraid of blindness. He strutted, boasted, lied, and above all pretended to himself that hebelieved his hard philosophy because he was afraid, afraid of failing todo the things he wanted to do. He saw himself clearly now, he was acoward, a deceiving ape, a monkey caught in the terror of tanglingroots, and denying it. He barked like a frightened dog, at the thingthat was his master. He was gripped by life, tortured by life, denieddeath by life, and cheated by life of living. His imagination, fired byhis passion, leaped into play, and he felt himself a thousand times aslave, a chained prisoner in the hand of circumstance. 

Philip was laughing gaily, and talking to Claire, who listened, answered, and was all the while lost in her own thought. When he hadentered, Philip had looked quickly at the two to see if there was aughtbetween them, and had found Lawrence colder, more despondent than ever. He told himself that Lawrence had evidently pleaded with Claire for herlove and been denied. At least, this blind man had not been successful, and Philip could afford to be good-humored. The more agreeable he was, the more Claire would turn to him from that dark, ungracious formyonder. His would be the victory of pleasant manners. Therefore hetalked, gladly, smilingly, while Claire listened, or seemed to listen. 

She was rebellious at the fear which had made her cry "No" to Lawrence, and at the same time glad that she had done so, afraid of the future, exasperated with Philip for coming in at the supreme moment, and angrywith Lawrence for his stupidity. 

Perhaps these tangled relations might have been cleared had it not beenfor a piece of folly more stupendous than any they had yet experienced. This event occurred the day after Lawrence's walk in the snow. 

Philip had stepped out for a few minutes to look at a near-by trap, andClaire and the artist were left alone for the first time since herdenial. She wanted him to renew his suit, feared that he would, and satwaiting for him to speak. 

But he remained silent, and at last she said, "Lawrence. "

"Well?" He did not move. 

The psychology of woman has been too often commented upon and attemptedby those who thought they could explain. Why Claire was doing and sayingwhat she did, she herself could not tell. 

"Lawrence, don't you ever, ever act as you did yesterday again. "

He smiled. "It would be dangerous if your gallant should come in lessslowly. " He was filled with a desire to hurt her. 

Claire was angry with him for saying what was so utterly far from hermind and so different from what she wanted him to say. 

"If my gallant should come in, " she thrust coldly, "he would scarcelyappreciate the melodrama you are playing. "

Lawrence sat up with a jerk, his rage near the boiling point. 

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "I have not interfered with yourdelightful episode, have I?"

"No, and you couldn't. I mean that my husband--he is my lover--for Iknow that is what you intend by 'gallant'--would scarcely appreciate thetype of man who mopes and abuses the woman who does not care to lie inhis arms. "

Lawrence sat still, while a fierce, uncontrollable rage consumed him. Hefelt that to take this woman and whip her into submission would be apleasure. He thought of the lash he had in his studio at home and wishedit were in his hand. With the thought he rose and stepped swiftly towardClaire, his teeth set. 

She saw him, and rose. 

"I have one way of showing you who is master, " he began, and stopped. 

She had stepped forward and was standing almost against him. 

"Even blindness does not allow you the freedom to threaten. "

He shrank back and dropped once more into his chair. 

Claire was talking rapidly, savagely. Later she was to be thrown into adespairing self-hate that kept her many a night in tears, but now shewent on. 

"Do you think I will overlook everything in you because I pity you?There have been times when your impositions, so carelessly thrust uponme, because you were selfish, because you knew I must accept them fromyou, were almost unbearable. The touch of your thief-trained hands tosteal from everything its beauty and self-respect has galled me beyondall endurance. My body has received its last vile grasp from you. "

She stopped, appalled at his expression. She did not know, neither ofthem knew, that love, the ever-changing impulse of creation within menand women, speaks its desire through bitter scorn and abuse, when softerwords are too slow in finding their way. 

He was sitting there, white, anguished, cowering under her tongue, hiswhole life shaken. Her words made him feel that the thing she said wastrue. He had always feared it, realizing that in a measure it wasinevitable, and his great strength was now turned against himself, against his bitter handicap, and he was in that tremendous upheaval thatrequires a rebuilding of one's faith. His belief in himself was broken. His belief in his power was gone. Coming after weeks of thought and fearabout blindness, Claire's words tore him asunder and made him feel thatthere was nothing for him but abject misery and dependence upon charity. 

Instinctively, his hand went up as if to shield him from a blow, and hemurmured, "For God's sake, Claire!"

There was to come a time, later, when experience would have taught himthat there is a wild strain in the nature of human hearts which abusesout of a desire to be conquered. He did not yet realize that he hadspoken truly when he said that this woman had hidden in her the savagewarring sexed tumult of all the struggling ages. 

She saw him there, his hand up, and suddenly her emotion changed. It waslove, still love crying out for expression, but now she was allcompassion, tenderness, and fear. She read in his face what she haddone, and her heart was gray with the pain at her own failure. 

Now all love for her was buried, perhaps dead, under his shatteredselfhood, slain in the wrecking earthquake that she had brought to passwith the ardor of her passion. She had meant to sting him into takingher in his arms and forcing her to love him, and instead--"Oh, God!" shewhispered, and slipped behind the curtain to throw herself on her bedand weep with heart wrung by self-condemnation and loving pity for theman whom she had clubbed with his own dread weakness. She had shatteredinto chaos the strong soul of the man she loved, with the only weapon hewould have felt, and she realized now that it was her love, her desireto be his, to be his utterly, that had led her to do it. 

Lawrence was too hurt to move. His mind repeated again and again thewords she had spoken. He kept saying to himself: "Blindness has made methat, an egotist beggar. " He did not reproach Claire. She had swept himtoo far from his habitual moorings for that. There was no rebellionagainst her, none, indeed, against life. Over him rolled wave after waveof self-contempt, distrust, and anguish that shook him with an agonythat only the assured man knows when the one he loves most of all onearth strikes dead his faith in himself. He thought of a multitude ofthings that stabbed anew, but not once did he move in the interminableperiod that passed before Philip returned. 

When he did come, the Spaniard was amazed at the crouching, white-facedman whom he found before a dying fire. There was something so sad in theblind face that Philip felt no suspicion and no anger. He looked forClaire, but she was not visible. He stirred the fire and set aboutpreparing supper while his mind began digging at the problem which hesaw in the attitude of the man there in the chair. Claire did not comeout to help. She was too exhausted from the storm that had swept overher. In her bed she could hardly smother the scream that kept rising toher lips. She wanted to spring up and cry aloud to Lawrence forforgiveness. She was scarcely aware of Philip as he moved about. 

She could have thrown herself at Lawrence's feet and pleaded with him. She was discovering that her whole wild outbreak was a strangeexpression of her physical desire for this man whom she loved, and thediscovery made her as self-detesting as she had been violent in heroutbreak. It seemed to her that there was nothing, nothing she would notdo to make amends to Lawrence for what she had said. She wanted to tellhim what it had been that prompted her, but she dared not lest inrevulsion at her viciousness he turn on her and kill her. 

"God, God, " she muttered, "what have I done!"

Philip was calling her to supper. She steadied her voice, and saidhumbly: "I can't come out. I'm not feeling very well. Go on without me, please. "

She heard him speak to Lawrence, and she strained her ears to catch theanswering movement toward the table, but there was none. At last Philipspoke again in a voice that was full of anxiety: "Lawrence, what inGod's name has happened?"

Lawrence was moving now, and she waited with bated breath for hisanswer. He walked to the table and sat down. His voice was heavy. "I'vefound myself out, Philip. That's all. I know what I am. "

There was a moment of silence. Claire covered her mouth with her hand tosuppress a cry. She wanted to shout: "No, no, no, not that, but what Iam, my beloved, my adored one. "

"What do you mean?" Philip's voice seemed stern. 

"I mean that I am indebted to you and Claire for the truth I needed. "

Behind the curtain Claire turned on her face and burst into sobs. 

Philip arose abruptly. "Lawrence, " he said quietly, "I do not know whathas happened to you this afternoon; I do not know what you mean; butthis I do know: I am deeply sorry if anything I have done or said hasmade you feel that you are an unwelcome guest in my home. "

Lawrence stood up and gathered his scattered senses. 

"Philip, I beg your pardon, old man. It isn't that at all. The truthis"--and his voice broke--"I have lied to myself and to the world thesemany years. Much of it hasn't been my fault, but I must pay the pricejust the same. I am blind. That has led me to a sort of clamorous egoismwhich carried me on and on until I came to feel that I was really doingsomething. At last, I know that I am a narrow human parasite, worthless, utterly worthless. A blind, clinging, grasping, vagrant beast, fed uponthe mercy of too kind-hearted humanity. I am sorry. It isn't my fault, but it is so. "

Philip stood for a few minutes in silence. "You're ill, Lawrence, " hesaid finally. "Get back to yourself if you can. Things do not stay atthis point in human abasement. I know of what I speak. I have beenthrough that myself. I cannot say anything comforting. No one can. "

They went to bed with but a few commonplace remarks, and the cabinbecame silent. Lawrence lay awake through that night. Claire, unknown tohim, spent her vigil in a great readjustment of her life. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

PHILIP TO THE RESCUE. 

It is always the little things in human relations that have the mostfar-reaching results. Claire might have avoided much trouble with a fewwell-chosen words to Lawrence, but her own mental state prevented herfrom speaking. 

On his part, Lawrence was so shaken by her outburst that his love forher was driven deep into his subconscious self, and for the time it laythere dormant. After the sudden volcanic upheaval of his entireuniverse, he was utterly absorbed in the immediate task ofreconstructing his faith in himself. The primitive stages of histhinking did not allow for any relation between himself and the womanwho had released the dam of self-abasement. She was unavoidably at hand, reminding him of her speech, and that alone delayed what otherwise wouldhave been an unconscious process. 

Claire was not able to forget the intense desire which, she nowrealized, had prompted her terrible diatribe. Humiliation held her inits throes, and she was reserved, distant, and unnatural toward him. 

Philip saw it all, and his mind was filled with conjectures which madehim less and less charitable toward Lawrence, more jealous, and morehopeful of a happy issue of his love for Claire. She turned to himeagerly for companionship. Instinctively she sought refuge from her ownthoughts--and from Lawrence--by talking to Philip. 

The morning after the incident between Lawrence and Claire there hadbeen an austere reserve in the cabin. Claire had fled from theoppressive gloom into the open. Outside Philip joined her, and theywalked together in silence. He was determined not to ask Claire what hadhappened, although he was extending her a silent sympathy which she feltand a little resented. 

Lawrence, left alone in the cabin, gave small heed to their departure. He had risen with a frightful headache and a fever. He lay on the bedand thought of his situation, his past life, and his future chances, inbitter, heartrending, self-condemnatory sarcasm which made his conditioneven less tolerable than it would have been otherwise. 

"I am a miserable groveler at the feet of humanity, " he thought, "clutching at shrinking shoestrings for a piece of bread in pity's name. If I could see, God, if I only could!"

He thought of all the little things which his blindness made itabsolutely necessary for others to do for him, and his excited mindmagnified them into colossal proportions. If his landlady in New Yorkhad removed a spot from his clothes, as she had often done, that was aproof of his despised state. He fell to imagining that he was unkempt, dirty, disgustingly unclean, and that people had tolerated it becausethey had pitied him. At last, with a cry of anguish, he thought: "And mywork, too, it is a botched mess which they are amused at and do not dareto tell me the truth about. It, too, is a jest that the world is havingat my expense. " He remembered praise and prizes that he had won incontests with other students, and he was too excited to see the folly ofhis answer: "That was charity, the award of kindness to me. I know nowwhat they thought--that for a blind man the thing was nearly enoughcorrect to be interesting and quite amusing. "

His body felt hot, and he went outside to prowl about in the wind andsnow, like a despairing beast. His mind kept up its terrible work, andhe did not notice the continual drop in temperature. Round and round thecabin he walked, instead of going into the forest, as he would have donethe day before. In his mind was a sudden doubt of his own ability, andhe said that Claire had been right to keep him in. She was more aware ofhis pitiable weakness than he. At last, however, from sheer weariness hewent inside. He was chilled through, but instead of rebuilding the fireand warming himself, he rolled up in a blanket and lay on the bed, chilling and burning by turns. 

In the mean time Claire and Philip were discussing the man in the cabin. Philip had finally broken the silence by saying: "Claire, you needn'tfeel so about whatever has happened. Remember he is blind and must betreated less critically than other men. "

She knew that that was just what had made Lawrence so deadly white whenshe had spoken, and it filled her with sickening pain. She answeredunsteadily: "That isn't true. It isn't Lawrence, anyway, it's myself whoshould be condemned. "

Philip was thoughtful. "It is like you to take the blame on yourself. You are so kind-hearted that way. "

In her present state, his words seemed like a reproach. "Philip, don't, "she said sadly. "I know better than that. "

He persisted. "No, you do not. You are too sympathetic, and you let yourheart get the better of you. "

"I wish you wouldn't talk that way, " she repeated. "You wouldn't, if youknew the truth. "

"Of course, I do not know what happened, " he said, "but I do knowyou--even better than you know yourself. "

"Do you know what I've done?"

"No, and I do not care. It was right, I am sure. The queen can do nowrong. " He was intensely serious. 

"Isn't there any common sense left in you, Philip?" she railed. "Haveyou gone clear back into medieval nonsense in your feeling toward me? Itell you, you are indulging in foolishness. "

"Am I?" He smiled. "Well, if that is the best I have to give--"

"I don't want you to give me anything. "

"But I cannot help it, neither can you. "

"I have killed a man's love before this, " she answered bitterly. 

"But you cannot kill mine. I love you, whether you love me or not. I amproud to acknowledge my unreturned love. "

"As you please. " Claire stopped suddenly. "Are we apt to get anywherewith this subject?" she asked ironically. 

"I don't know. I earnestly hope so. "

She looked at Philip thoughtfully. Perhaps the truth about her ownweakness might cure him. 

"Suppose I allowed you to love me, and you found that you had won awoman whose passions were her whole life. Suppose she should prove to bea mere bundle of sex, all polished over with other people's ideas, asocial manner, and a set of morals which she did not really feel, whichwere deceiving ornaments hiding her soul. What would you think of yourprize?"

"I should not love such a woman. I could not. "

"But suppose you were deceived and thought her other than she was. "

"I hardly expect such a thing to happen. Why suppose?"

"Because if I were your wife you might find it to be true. "

Philip laughed aloud. "Claire, how preposterous! Are you trying to killmy love for you with such terrifying pictures of depravity?"

"I wasn't trying to do anything. I just wanted to know. "

"Have you been answered?"

"Yes, you are like all of your type; you are in love with what your owndesire chooses as an ideal, and then you shout, 'Behold, I am not asensual lover!'"

He stared at her in amazement. "What sort of a thing do you think I am?"

She laughed carelessly. "A man. And what do you think I am?"

"A very strange woman, but a dear one, " he said earnestly. 

"Why strange, Philip?"

"Because you talk of love as Lawrence might. "

She winced. "He would know, " she said. "He does know, perhaps. " She wastalking to herself, and her voice was pathetic. 

Philip's eyes grew fierce with anger. "What do you mean?"

"Not what your very ideal mind thinks, " she said coldly. 

He flamed scarlet, and looked away. "Claire, " he said softly, "will younever have done stirring up suspicions no man could avoid, and thencondemning them?"

"I didn't stir them up, " she mocked. 

"Who did, then?"

Claire was undergoing a developing reconstruction, but that she did notknow. She thought she was degenerating, and the immediate result was tomake her careless and ironical. 

"Oh, the devil, perhaps, " she hazarded. 

"What are you, Claire?" Philip demanded hoarsely. 

Suddenly her suffering broke into tears. To his utter amazement, shebegan to cry unrestrainedly. 

Over and over she sobbed: "I don't know, I don't know. "

For a moment Philip stood motionless, bewildered, then his love andnatural tenderness swept over him, and he said tenderly, "Don't, Claire, please. "

She only cried harder, weakened the more by his pity. He took her in hisarms as he would a child, and comforted her. She was tempted tostruggle, but her need for sympathy prevailed, and she did not resisthim. He held her in his arms, pouring out his love, his anxiety, histenderness, and in her momentary condition she listened and made noprotest. In her aching mind she kept repeating, "I have killedLawrence's love with my bestial talk"--and she wanted love. She did notthink of her husband. He was too far away. In her present attitude sheexalted Lawrence to the unattainable, and, without formulating thethought, she was willing to lie in Philip's arms and take what he couldgive. They were two of a kind, she thought scornfully. In herbitterness, the bleak, snow-covered land, with its drooping pines, seemed in its cold monotony a fitting background for two such worthlessderelicts. 

In the Spaniard's mind was but one thought--to comfort Claire andrestore her to her usual self. Vaguely he knew that love was alreadypromised by the unresisting body in his arms, but there was no thoughtof immediately pressing his suit. He petted and talked until she stoppedcrying, then he stood her on her feet, and said, with a tender laughterin his words: "There, you are all right again. We would better go in. You are cold. "

Silently she walked beside him back to the cabin. She was indifferent, she thought, as to whether he did or did not continue his appeals forlove. She was under her own deep, unexplained, emotional control whichled her forward. She was finding herself, but before she would be safeshe would have to throw off a mass of traditional views, beliefs, andteachings. If Philip chose to press his suit while her knowledge ofherself still seemed vile and abnormal, she would be surely his. Clairethought herself lost. She had revealed her terrible state to Lawrence, killed his love, filled him with abhorrence, and struck at his life'ssource. 

With silent turmoil in her brain she entered the cabin beside Philip. When she saw Lawrence, a sharp pain went through her. He was white asdeath save for the red spots that marked his fever. She took off hercoat and snow-cap hurriedly. 

"Lawrence, " she said softly, going toward him. 

He lifted his head slightly. 

"What is it, Claire?"

"I want to do something for you. You're ill. "

His face clouded. "No, thanks, " he said. "You've done too much for mealready. "

"Won't you do anything for yourself?" she begged. 

"I'll be all right. It's just a cold, I guess. "

Philip came and stood looking down at Lawrence scrutinizingly, whileClaire went to the fire and heated water. 

"I am going to fill you up with quinin, " he announced. "It is nevermissing from my medicine-chest. "

"All right, " Lawrence laughed. "It isn't bitter compared to what I'mfilling myself with. "

"Are you not making a fool of yourself?" Philip asked plainly. 

"Yes. I know it. That doesn't keep me from doing it, though. "

Claire turned and looked at them, her eyes sternly reproachful towardPhilip. 

"One can't help thinking, " she said. "I can't. "

"I shouldn't want you to, " Lawrence returned. "Indeed, I'm grateful toyou for making me think, too. "

"She started you off, did she?" Philip smiled. 

Lawrence did not answer, and Philip sat down by the fire where he couldwatch Claire as she worked. 

After a time Lawrence said thoughtfully: "If one could establish somesort of a relation between himself and the ultimate first cause of allthis blind snowstorm we call life, things might get shaped with somemeasure for perspectives. "

"Yes, " Philip assented. "I manage to establish one, though I confess itisn't clearly logical. "

"What is it?" Lawrence asked. 

"Simply having faith; hope, if you prefer it. "

"But faith in what, and what do you base it on?"

"Oh, on my experience. "

"I wonder if we really matter at all to the rest of the scheme, " Clairevoiced. 

"I am inclined to think not, " replied Lawrence. "We matter only toourselves, and what we can do with the universe around us. "

"We matter to God, I think, " said Philip. "I don't mean in the oldaccepted sense; but we must matter to Him in some way, perhaps as yourstatue here matters to you. "

Lawrence chuckled weakly. "It mattered tremendously when I was doingit. Now it doesn't in the least matter. I shouldn't care if you burnedit as firewood. "

"But you must care, " Claire protested, feeling that he was losinginterest in his work because of her. 

"I don't see why. I haven't any real assurance as to its value. It maybe good, more likely it isn't; in any case, I have turned it loose toshift for itself. It can survive or not; its doing so is immaterial. Perhaps as immaterial as my existence is to the Great Artist whoconceived the botched job called me. "

"But, Lawrence, why insist that you don't matter to Him?"

"Oh, because I am scarcely aware of Him at all; indeed, I am not awareof Him, and I am sure He isn't aware of me. "

"You have not any way to prove that, " declared Philip. 

"True, except that I can imaginatively comprehend the size of time andspace, and all that is therein. I know my own size, and I can readilyimagine that the creator of the whole is no more aware of me than I am, say, of a small worm that may be in the heart of my cherub there. "

"We do seem pretty small in the face of the stars, " said Claire. 

"Yes, and so impossible, " added Lawrence. "I didn't realize until to-dayhow utterly impossible I really am. "

"But, impossible or not, here you are, " Philip laughed. 

"Yes, here I am and there I may be, but in either place I am notespecially possible. You are; you can go out and make a definite, independent impression on life; that makes you possible in that you areforcing recognition of power and capability. I can't do that. Theimpression I make is one of incapability. For myself I am impossible, and for others more so. "

"Which has nothing to do with God, " said Philip, in his tone a touch ofdistaste. 

Lawrence recognized it and became silent. 

Claire made him take the quinin and heated bricks for his feet. Philipwent out to cut wood for the fire, leaving her alone with the sick man. She was so full of her own wickedness, as she conceived it, that shedared not tell him her thoughts. She wanted to explain that she lovedhim, that she had loved him all along, but she could not. She looked athim, and felt sure that he had now no love for her. 

Lawrence was trying to follow out in his mind a searching inquiry as tohis relation to life. "If I could only establish that, " he thought, "Icould get myself straight and there would be something to start from. IfI knew which way to move!" But he was unable to do any coherentthinking. His head ached, his lips burned with fever, and his body kepthim busy with the sensation of pain. It seemed to him that illness madehis state more detestable, but it also offered him a chance of escapefrom the whole drab business. He was quite sure that he wanted toescape, and he would not have believed it if any one had told him thathe would resist death to the uttermost; yet deep within him was thatwill to live which had made him the creative artist. It was working, unknown to him, now, toward the reconstruction he so needed. 

He turned restlessly, and muttered something about his foolishness. Claire came and sat beside him silently. She was wondering what wouldhappen if she should tell him of her discovery of herself. 

"Claire!" Lawrence spoke. "Is it possible for any one to get his lifeplatform built so that it will stand without that first great plank?"

"What plank?"

"God. "

"I don't know. "

"It seems to me that you couldn't have shaken me so yesterday if I hadbeen built up right. "

"Lawrence, " she said piteously, "I didn't mean to do that, to say that. "

He waved her words aside. "Never mind, Claire, it did me good. I was notrealizing, quite, just what I was. I'm finding it out, and when I getright I'll be all the better for it. "

"But you don't know why I did it. "

"Yes, I do, but it doesn't matter, anyway. What was behind your wordsdoesn't count so long as you told the truth. "

"But it does count, and I didn't tell the truth. "

"I'm afraid you did. Please don't try to cover it with kind fibs now. "

"I sha'n't, but you don't understand. "

"Well, Claire, it doesn't matter, as I said. What is it to me what youdo or don't do, so long as you bring me face to face with more truth?"

She thought he was telling her that he cared nothing for her. She didnot blame him, yet there was a tiny streak of pride that said, "At leastPhilip finds me worth while. "

"It is simply my own salvation that is involved, " Lawrence went on. 

"Well, I hope you find it, " she said simply. 

"I must find it to live, " he answered. 

"And how do you propose to find it?"

"I don't know. I wish I did. "

"You might find it, as you once said, in creative work. "

"No, that isn't a salvation. I must have a platform from which to work. Don't you see that, Claire?"

"I don't understand anything about it. "

"Pardon me, I didn't intend to force this upon you. "

"That isn't what I mean, Lawrence. " Her eyes were moist. "What I meantwas that you live above me entirely. "

"Nonsense, " he said wrathfully. "You talk like a silly girl, Claire. "

"Do I? Well, I am perhaps less worth while than you think. "

"Oh, I guess not, " he returned carelessly. 

She covered her face with her hands. 

"I know you are worth all that I think you are, " he continued. "But I amafraid that just now I am too interested in my own salvation to think ofyou at all correctly. "

"Yes, " she observed wearily. 

She was thinking of Philip as he had comforted her that morning, and histenderness, compared to this cold statement from Lawrence, seemedattractive beyond measure. She admitted that all hope of Lawrence'sloving her was dead, and she said to herself: "It is what I wanted. Ican go back to my husband. " But she did not want to go back to Howard. She received this discovery calmly. She would never go back. But whyshouldn't she? She could not tell for certain. She thought it wasbecause she had found herself unworthy, but deep within her was theknowledge that she no longer loved him. It would be useless to go backto him in any event. He could never be the same to her after hearing ofher long months with this blind man in the wilderness. 

What months they had been! She thought them over, day by day, and shesaw what might have been a great joy sink, after a glimpse, into utterdarkness. Before her she saw the endless gray years beside Philip. Yes, she would stay with him. At least he loved her, and she could help him. If she did not love him, what of it? She would be an able wife to him. She could keep him from ever knowing that her heart was away withLawrence, who would be back in the world at home and have forgotten her. 

"Claire!" Lawrence was speaking. "We have certainly reaped a strangeharvest from our months of sowing in the wilderness. "

"Yes. "

"Whatever brought it about?"

"I don't know. "

"Perhaps it was fate, that you should teach me where I stand in life. "

"Perhaps. "

"And perhaps you, too, will find that I have been of some value when weare separated. "

"It may be. "

"I wish things might have gone differently. "

"They didn't. "

"No, and they can't. Well, let them be as they are. "

"I guess we'll have to, Lawrence. "

A few minutes later, when she looked at him, he was asleep. 

CHAPTER XV. 

UTTER EXHAUSTION. 

Claire rose and slipped quietly to her own bed. All the aching pain ofher proposed future came over her with its dirty sordidness. She couldnever stand it, she thought, and clenched her teeth. Well, it was notnecessary. When Lawrence was gone, there was the lake. That would be herway out of it all. No one need ever know. The thought of death seemedvery sweet to her. 

Philip came in, saw Lawrence asleep, and stole across the room to peepin at her. She met his glance. 

"I beg your pardon, " he murmured. 

"Never mind, " she answered dully. "Come in if you like. "

He hesitated, then stepped through, and let the curtain fall behind him. 

"May I sit here?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

"Why not?" Her voice was colorless. "Only please speak softly. Don'twake Lawrence. "

"He'll feel better after his sleep, I think. "

"I hope so. "

He sat looking down into her dark, clouded eyes. There was something sotragic, so sad, and so submissive in them that he was filled with uttertenderness. 

"Claire, " he whispered, "what is the matter?"

"Nothing. I'm quite well. "

"You look absolutely desolate. "

"I don't especially feel so. "

"Are you happy?"

"I don't know. "

He stooped over her, studying her face. She did not move, only her deep, dark eyes looked up coldly into his. He took the hand which she did notdraw away, and whispered: "Claire, let me make you happy. "

She did not answer. He bent nearer. Her eyes did not shift from his, shesaw that he was going to kiss her, but she did not move. If the wholeworld had come crashing down upon her, she could not have made theslightest effort to escape. 

He pressed his lips against hers. She did not return his kiss, but shedid not protest. He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her up. Still she made no objection. He held her more closely, kissing her againand again. She remained impassive, unable to summon sufficient willpowerto resist. Besides, had she not decided to be this man's wife?

He was pouring into her ears short, whispered words of endearment, giving his love free rein. 

"Claire--Claire, " he whispered passionately, "you do love me! Say youlove me!"

"Oh, must I say that?" she asked languidly. 

He laid her head back on the pillow tenderly. 

"Why shouldn't you?" he demanded. "You do, or you wouldn't let me actthis way. Oh, Claire, isn't that true?"

"Doesn't your own heart tell you, Philip?" She could not lie easily. 

"Yes, of course. I just wanted to hear you say it, dear. "

"Why?"

"Because--because it means so much to me. "

"How does it mean any more than my unresisting lips?" She wanted to befair to Philip. Would he want a wife without love?

He looked at her, puzzled by her calm question. 

"Because, dear, it would mean that you put your seal on our divinebetrothal. "

"I gave you my lips, you held me in your arms, doesn't that mean love toyou?"

"Claire, why do you talk that way?"

"Why shouldn't I? Isn't it true?"

"Yes, but you--you seem so unlike the woman you are. "

"Oh, I see. But you haven't told me fully why you wanted me to say Iloved you. "

He stood up nervously and moved a few paces away, but the patient, self-reproachful gaze in Claire's eyes brought him back again. 

"Why talk of that at all, dearest?" he whispered. "We have each other. Isn't that enough?"

"Perhaps not. You asked me to say it, you know. "

"Yes, but I don't care. I won't plague you. I know you do love, me. " Hekissed her again and then looked at her. Her lips had been cold. 

"What is the matter, Claire? Don't you love me? Is that why you wouldn'tgive me your word?"

It was coming at last. How could she make Philip see, and yet be fair tohim, too?

"I don't know what you mean by love. " Her voice was carefully toneless. 

Philip's eyes lighted. "Don't you want me here beside you? Don't youwarm to my kisses? Isn't there an awakened tenderness in you at mytouch? Isn't there, dearest?"

Claire's hands moved nervously up and down the edge of the comforter. "If I should stay here with you, that would be the highest proof that Iloved you, wouldn't it?"

"What else?" He looked at her, hope giving his face a renewed glow. 

Was that all that love meant to him? "Is that what your years of thoughthave taught you?" she said aloud. 

"Why, yes, Claire, the return of passion for passion, of warmth forwarmth, of tenderness for tenderness, must be the last test, mustn'tit?"

Despite her resolution her eyes narrowed ironically. 

Philip started, and stared at her. 

"Would you ever be jealous of my husband?" she asked, slowly. 

His head dropped. "No--and yes. Of course, I wish he hadn't been yourhusband, but we can't help what fate has decreed. " He raised his eyes, and then suddenly he smiled. "Claire, is it because of him that you areunwilling to tell me you love me?" he asked softly. "I think I canunderstand. You'll have to be freed from him in some way, and we must bemarried, of course. "

"I am free from him. To him, I am dead. Isn't that enough?"

"Yes, " he answered judiciously, "if your own conscience is satisfied. "

She smiled a little, her eyebrows lifting in amusement. "Oh, my ownconscience dictates my every act, Philip. "

"I know it does, " he agreed, earnestly. "But your lips were cold to mykiss. " He bent over to test the truth of his remark. 

"Do you forget Lawrence so easily?" Claire raised a hand over her face. "Certainly I cannot. "

"I beg your pardon, " Philip said, rising hastily. "Of course he is tobe remembered. We will wait until we are alone to talk of our future. "

"Yes, " she said. "I should prefer that greatly. "

He touched his lips to her forehead tenderly, then stepped silently intothe room beyond. 

She heard him as he moved quietly to replenish the fire, and it seemedto her that he made enough noise to echo from the mountains across thelake. She must think her situation through. She was studying the lookshe had read on Philip's face, and was angry with herself, yet she couldnot help thinking of it and its meaning. Suddenly she remembered thesame expression on her husband's face, and she shuddered. She hadthought it beautiful then, why not now? And why should she be socontemptuous when probably the same look had been in her own eyes whenshe had raged at Lawrence because he had not taken her in his arms. Philip was sitting out there beyond the curtain dreaming ecstatically ofthe days when they would be alone in the cabin, and she smiledironically. After all, there was but one way out. He would find littlecomfort in her ghost, and her drowned body would scarcely fire him topassion. 

She rose and slipped out into the room. Lawrence was still asleep. Shedid not even glance toward Philip because she foresaw his look ofproprietorship. She went straight to Lawrence, and bending over him asif to arrange something about his blanket, she whispered softly:"Beloved, when I am alone with him, I shall be more with you. "

Philip came and stood beside her, his hand resting lightly on hershoulder. 

"It looks like a serious fever, " he said softly. 

Claire listened to Lawrence's breathing and felt his temperature. Shestood up, gray with anxiety. "I'm afraid for him, " she said, and therewas that in her voice which Philip did not understand. 

They ate their supper in silence. Claire glanced at Philip occasionallyand found in his eyes the anticipated look of tender ownership. She lethim slip out of her mind while she thought again of the afternoon whenLawrence had declared his creative principle. How dearly she would loveto help him, to have him model his statue of her. He had said that shewas savage and elemental underneath her polish. He had known, then, allthe time. What a man he was! If only she knew how to find his love, toreawaken it. But no, he would never forget. Well, he would not have beenable to care for her, anyway, she was so utterly sensual despite all hertraining in culture. He would want a more spiritual woman to fire hisimagination to do great work. She tried to imagine what sort of womanwould be best for his wife. 

Lawrence stirred restlessly. She rose and went quickly to the bed. Hewas still asleep and she stood looking down at him. In her heart was agreat tenderness and a great fear. What if he should die? Memories oftheir days in the woods swept over her in waves of love. 

Abruptly she turned to Philip and said quietly: "Philip, until I am yourwife you must not touch me again. "

He looked up, startled, then smiled. "I understand, my dear, " he said, "I will not. "

She sat down at the table to wait for Lawrence's waking. It was latewhen he did, and immediately they realized that he was worse. Clairegave him some hot soup made from dried meal and helped Philip get himundressed and into bed. 

"I'll put some blankets here and sleep on the floor beside him, " Philipwhispered. "I don't in the least mind, and I can help him if he wantshelp during the night. "

"Thank you, " Claire said gratefully. She felt indebted to this man forevery kindness shown Lawrence. 

Long before morning she was aroused by the sound of movements out therein the room. 

"What is it?" she called softly. 

"I am looking for something in which to heat water, " came Philip'svoice. 

She scrambled out of bed, drew on a few clothes, and went out. Lawrencewas tossing on his bed and breathing heavily. She set to work heatingthe water herself, and sent Philip back to his blankets. There was apleasure in doing this nursing for Lawrence. She felt glad that herswas the chance to care for him. 

"You're to have the best nursing a sick man ever got, Lawrence, " shesaid, stooping over him tenderly. 

He smiled faintly and whispered: "Good, Claire. "

"You'll be well so quick you won't remember being ill. "

"I know, " he murmured huskily. 

"What do you know?" she asked eagerly. 

"I know, it's natural for you, this kindness. "

"Is that all you know, Lawrence?"

"About all, Claire. About all, yet. "

"Why do you say 'yet'?"

"I haven't thought it out yet. "

"What, Lawrence?"

"My platform, my work-bench for the future. "

She laughed, a little sadly. "You would better stop thinking about thatfor a day or so, wouldn't you?"

"Perhaps. I can't, though. "

She drew up a chair and sat beside him. "I'm going to become a regularguard, and if you don't sleep and let thinking wait, I'll scolddreadfully. "

He tossed uneasily and turned toward her, his cheeks brilliant withfever. 

"I like to hear you scold, Claire, " he said. "I shall go my limit. "

She rubbed her cool hand across his forehead for answer. 

When he at last slept, she continued to watch by his side, rockingslowly in her chair. It was peace for her to sit there and dream. Therewas rest from her ceaseless questionings, and it was welcome rest. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

THE QUESTION ANSWERED. 

During the days that followed Claire's attitude grew into one ofmotherhood. She watched over Lawrence for the least thing she might do, the least promise of returning health. There were times when he raved indelirium, and she listened with a swelling heart. 

One morning he began suddenly talking of himself. In broken sentences, shapeless phrases, half finished thoughts, he unfolded a strange tale. Claire was glad that Philip was away at work with his traps. She satbeside Lawrence, her hands clasped, and did not miss a word. 

"You see, " he began one day without preliminaries, "you see, I wasn'tjust given the best of chances. That was the beginning of it all. Iwasn't fairly treated. " She tried to comfort him into sleep, but he didnot know she was talking to him and went on earnestly with hisunconscious revelation. 

"The whole business was a squalid sort of thing banked by mountains sogrand in their rugged strength that I never got used to the dirty, dustylittle half-civilized town there on the plateau. Even as a child I feltthe intolerable difference between the place and its surroundings. Menought to be better up there, but they aren't. They just magnify faultswith the bigness of the hills around. Lots of it was romantic, lots ofit ought never to be lost, the frank freedom, the vital living, the joyof uncertain victory over the dirt of the mines. It made men wild, wildto the last degree, that ever possible stumbling into gold, pure, glittering gold. Why, I saw it as a kid, shining like stars all over theside of the tunnel. It made even the children mad, I think. When Imodeled rude little figures out of the red clay, I was always on theoutlook for a possible gold-mine. "

He laughed, then went on seriously. "I didn't have the chance to grow uplearning things gradually. There was no dividing-line between vice andvirtue, all of it spread out there, street behind street, in a glow ofabandoned riot. Even virtue flashed with a loose frankness that deceiveda growing boy. It was a grand drama. Fifty thousand mad men and women!"

She looked at him in amazement. This was something beyond her knowledge. What was it all that he was talking about?

"There was Josey; she didn't know. I didn't. We saw love played with inhilarious open passion. We thought it was the thing to do. Childrenoughtn't to see it quite that way. "

Claire felt guilty, but he stopped and when he began again he was on adifferent line of old memories. 

"Why, when I sold papers down on the main street I could see the girlsof the district standing around, one block below, in their businessregalia. I thought at first they were angels. "

Claire sat in wonder and listened. 

"The first time I ever went down there I was eight. Eight years old, andone of them called me from the open door of her house. When I stepped tothe door, she was coming down a stairway, her white dress open andspread like wings at either side of her naked body. I was sure she wasan angel out of my Sunday-school book. I could scarcely take the dimeshe gave me. I never forgot her kissing me and patting my head when Istared so at her. "

Claire felt a strangely tender pity for the little chap she was seeingnow in her imagination. 

"And the fighting, dirty, freckled sons of those women--they kept mehard at it, keeping the money I got. After that day, I went down thereoften. Traded a paper with a golden-haired angel for a box ofcigarettes, the first I ever owned. It was great, wonderful, to have hercigarettes. I smoked them with a sense of reverence. 

"Wright and I played hooky, and the girls hid us all day in theirshacks, played with us, teased us about sex, and taught us things weoughtn't to have known. Poor old Wright! They sent him to the pen forburglary after I had been gone years and was blind. I wonder if I'd havefollowed him. Most likely would. 

"And, oh, the hills! There was old Pisga, pined to its cone point, and arace-track, with a saloon, at its foot. I ran away out there once at abig Fourth of July barbecue. It rained like the devil and I lounged inthe bar with jockeys and sporting girls, listening to their ribald talk. 

"I don't know--a street urchin in a camp, that was all I was. If I gotlicked, and I did, I was a coward for years and had to give up mypennies. I used strategy, cunning, because I was afraid to fight till Iwhipped Red. That made a difference. If the old fellow I liked so hadn'tgiven Red a quarter to lick me, I'd have been a coward yet. It made meso mad I licked Red. "

Lawrence laughed again merrily. 

"That started me fighting, and I fought daily without provocation. Dirty, scaly fisted little rat, whose stockings sagged around his shoes, fighting for money in the saloons! The men liked me, too. All of themcalled me their kid. I used to stand big-eyed and watch the faro-tablestacked with gold. There were days, too, when I went out alone over thehills. I was ashamed of my little figures and afraid lest the boys findmy mud-pies, as Red had called a tiny dog that fell out of my pocket ina fight. 

"One day in an electric storm I saw a man and his horse killed bylightning. I was awed, and electricity became my god. I worshiped itlike a little heathen. I even bought penny suckers and stuck them up inthe ground where the lightning played in stormy weather. 

"It always seemed that the only things about the whole camp that fittedwith the hills were that girl in white and an old mountaineer who foughtwith his fists alone against a gang of drunks. I don't know why. Theyjust belonged. "

He stopped and lay a long time in silence. Claire thought over what hehad said, and her heart went out to this man as if he were still thelittle gamin of the hills. 

"Poor little chap, " she murmured aloud. 

Lawrence half raised himself in bed, talking again, and she was obligedto push him back. 

"It was all paradise, though, compared to that school where the Women'sClub sent me. I didn't want an education. Freedom was taken from me. Iwas chained with discipline. I had seen too much and I told the othermarveling boys. They talked, and I was punished as a degenerate littlevillain. I couldn't see why. That first winter was hell. They allmisunderstood me, and I them. I ached for my mountains again, and whenthey sent me to the camp for the summer I whooped for joy. 

"I must have been thirteen at that time. The men in camp paid the WidowMorgan to keep me through the summer. She had a daughter seventeen orthereabouts. Georgia had curly hair and blue eyes. She didn't pay muchattention to me at first. I didn't care. 

"Then one night the widow went off to a lodge-meeting and left us alone. Pearly and the gang came around and began throwing rocks at the houseand demanding that Georgia let them in. I was furious, and she wasnearly scared to death. She got her mother's pistol and asked me toshoot it. I took it and, opening the door, fired into the night. Thegang slunk off, but Georgia was still frightened. 

"We slipped out of our clothes in trembling silence and huddled togetherin her mother's bed. She was crying, and I felt very brave. I put myarms around her and comforted her. She became quiet by and by andslipped her arms around me. After that we found ourselves. 

"She said we were in love, and I guess we were. That night was thebeginning of my rebellious manhood. Her mother abused us roundly forimmoral little whiffits. I was put out, and after that the county keptme. Georgia hated me, for she said I was to blame. 

"I suppose that was all right, too, but it made me bitter against whatseemed to me an unjust world. I went back to school, hating. I neverstopped hating as long as I was there. It was misunderstanding fromfirst to last. I never ceased rebelling against punishment forrebellion. 

"It was a hopeless snarl, but it made me what I was when I enteredcollege, distant, sullen, and ferocious. My only joy was in my work, andI spent all my spare time in the studio. Then the second summer I shotoff the gunpowder, and blindness came. "

Lawrence lay back silent, then began again. 

"After the accident it was a thousand times worse. I thought peopledidn't like me because I was blind. They only pitied and misunderstood. Misunderstood--that word might be my epitaph. It could certainly beplaced over my childhood's grave. 

"It was in college that I started thinking. Thought out my plan ofmilitant egoism. It seemed to succeed, but all the time I was afraid itwas only pity that sold my work. You know, Claire, as you said, I've gotto do it all over again. All of it, building a new platform, a newwork-bench. I've got to allow for things. I've got to understand. "

In her tension, Claire walked the floor. Would he never stop? Thatglimpse into his life at the widow's--who was Pearly?--and what a toughlittle gang he must have grown up with! Poor boy!

He did not talk much for a long time, then he kept repeating: "I mustbuild a new work-bench, Claire. That's the thing to do. "

She felt at times that she must scream at him, then she would be allmotherly tenderness. "Lawrence, " she would whisper, "do it, my man. Youcan, my laddie. "

He tossed, and chided an unseen man or woman for having helped himthrough charity under the garb of admiration. He was misunderstandingagain. He thought everything was charity, pity for his blindness, and heraved. She began to see that this sudden bitterness which poured fromhis lips was the outcome of years of sorrow, the product of adeep-burning fire to see the beauty his soul craved. 

"Lawrence, " she cried, "God knows if I could I would give you my eyes!"

She knew that he was consumed with the pain of his struggle tocomprehend more beauty. Even exaggerating his hunger for sight, she weptbeside him. Her whole soul yearned to help him, to give him more of thebeauty which seemed the prime need of his nature. 

Sometimes he prayed for it, addressing Fate, Nature, Chance, anything, everything but God. 

After a silence that was beginning to frighten Claire, he began again. At first his words were indistinct, but as she leaned closer, theycleared of guttural sounds. She listened spellbound. 

"You see, I hadn't done my thinking with allowance for the whole ofhuman character, Claire. That was what was wrong with me. I'm doing thatnow. I'm finding myself again. It is back with the beginning of things Imust start. Back with the first squirm of life in the primordial mud. It's no use trying further back than that. No use at all. Back of thatlies only conjecture. 

"There was existence, perhaps, inert unconscious existence waiting tobecome suddenly aware of itself, aware of its parts and its differencefrom other things. Well, existence struggling, dreaming ofself-knowledge, found in a wriggling, oozing spot of protoplasm--that'sthe start of it all. Feeding without hunger, moving without knowledge tofood, reproducing mechanically by division, living without instinct, without emotion, without death. For me, that must be the beginning. 

"Whether death came, or what it was--a long period without food, perhaps--that started this stuff to changing, I do not know. Maybe itwas existence following the way of greatest pressure toward selfhood. Anyway, it started and began its journey. Up and up, out of the mud andooze, into light and dry dirt. 

"The glory of light must have been a great thing then. Think of it, coming into light, out of wet, dark mud. I know what it would be betterthan you. Light, the first great discovery of life! It must havehastened growth--warmth, sunrays, heat, cold at night and dark again. The glory of it breaking at dawn over the squirming, groping blindexistence of things!

"God said let there be light, and there was light. 

"Existence demanding the thing it craved. Was that it, or existencefinding light and learning to crave it? No matter--light, a thousandmiracles of warmth and wonder! Growth was inevitable, Claire. 

"Then the craving learned by experience broke into new form. I don'tknow what it was; a two-celled bug, perhaps--only that it was cravingthat did it. Hunger and thirst after light. 

"Pain came at the very start of things. Wants unsatisfied drove with thescourge of hell, forcing eyes, ears, stomach, sex into being, and out ofthe squalor of it all, still goaded by incessant want, there heaved thegigantic scaly carcass of the dinosaur. Still unaware of things, butdriven to move, to grow, to expand. Existence demanding more expressionof its awareness of self. 

"The beast didn't know what it was. He only grew and grew and grew, tillhe spread his ugly, yearning life over hundreds of feet of ground. Eyeand ear and touch and a peace of filled belly lay basking in the light, glorying in what they found. Life was good, riotously good, findingthings, finding itself out. They fought, fed, killed, bred, all in theeffort of existence to know. 

"What a blood-drenched chaotic struggle for self it was, Claire!

"And so, on and on and on. Touch didn't satisfy the incessant taste formore knowledge, more life. Bodies rising like hills out of the marshescouldn't give the keen joy that existence craved for itself. 

"New things again: changed, altered products of the old, bearing intheir frames the history, the memory of the old--it all came, and out ofit at last, hunger-driven for more keen life, sprang a biped, hairy, tusked, savage, bloody, lustful, eager to live, live, live!

"He was a glorious beast. In his flattened head that held the littlebloodshot eyes were memory, products of the past, things that harkedback for confirmation of present things. He had instincts--that's whatthey are, instincts, memories of past sufferings--that whipped theorganism to go on into keener living. He was sexed, he was hungry, hewas vicious, he slept and ate, he bred consciously, carrying on theeager shout within his being for more, more of life. More of existenceaware of itself!

"If he killed, he gloried in the hot blood that drenched his hairlessnose, and he learned to laugh through the pleasure of a filled belly. Helearned to cry when he went hungry. Tears came, and emotions, a morespecialized instinct. 

"He was learning something else, too. But pain still whipped him on, filled him with fear of non-life, and he grew cowardly. Nature hadcreated a new thing, a brain, a specialized mass of cells that cancomment, realize, criticise, warn, appreciate, choose better food, getit easier, help to conquer and promote life; the biped used this newthing to understand why he ran from the fingers that clutched at him inthe dark and he became afraid. If it brought him new pain, it alsobrought him new pleasure. It was a great toy that could be used to enjoyoneself with. 

"It can have the joy of bodily sensations and then recall them, studythem, comment on them, on its own instincts, its own memories. It candream of ways for procuring fuller life, and put the dreams into anydesired shape. Man struts from his jungle, laughing aloud, with lust forlife and joy at his fulness thereof. But all the while, pain, thedarkness, the still inert unconsciousness in existence that oppressesand drags back into its own dead inertness, is laughing still moreheartily. 

"Everywhere it checks, but man in his egotism forgets that he is aslave, bound and hampered, and boasts himself master. Death sweeps in, lightning kills, thunder crashes over him, and filled with fear, withsomething bigger than he can grasp, he falls upon his knees, and cries, 'God!'

"Then begins the mess, the tangled, detestable, bloody, dirty, riotouslyglorious, sublime mystery that is me. Me and you, Claire. Here we are. "

Claire leaned over him, her breath suspended in her eagerness. 

"Me, the man, specialized, sex-specialized, made to record, to enjoy, toremember, to create, and to die at last from sheer wearing out myselfseeking life. 

"And you, you the woman, deeper, more vitally sexed, more complete inyour memory of the past, more true in your record of it, less a sport, more a true seeker and knower of life--you, the embodiment of it all, memory, instinct, fear, passion, tenderness, hate--cunning, strong, wise, far-seeing, and altogether mistress of the whole brute world, mistress of everything in life and destiny save death. You, too, wornout by struggling to live more fully, but not until your lust for lifehas sent children out to carry on the struggle. 

"Oh, Claire, it is you the woman, demanding at any cost that your childlive, who gives us our great knowledge, our beauty, our selfishness, andour strident sex, our pain. "

Claire caught her breath and sobbed: "Lawrence, Lawrence!"

"Yes, " he went on, "that is the end of it all. I see it now. You, unknown to yourself, demanding your child, stung to fear of deathwithout it here in the wilderness, you love me--I know it, you love me. And I--I love you. It was that which drove you to speak as you did. Isee. I love you!"

She sank down on the pillow beside him. In her heart was a great reliefwhich carried her away in a flood of tears. Lawrence talked on unheededby her. He had made everything clear, and she was utterly happy. 

When Philip came in he found her sitting quietly, in her eyes a deep, calm peace that filled him with wonder. 

He smiled at her, thoughtfully, and remarked: "Well, Claire, you lookhappier than you have for months. "

"I am, " she said simply. 

They did not carry on the conversation. He was satisfied that it waslove for him which made her so distant, and he was content to wait untilshe should be his wife. He sat by the fire, watching her earnestly, andshe was too deep in her new-found joy even to think of him or of herpromise to him. 

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK. Don't forget this magazineis issued weekly, and that you will get thecontinuation of this story without waiting a month. 

Claire

byLeslie Burton Blades

THE BLIND LOVE OF A BLIND HERO

_BY A BLIND AUTHOR_

This story began in the All-Story Weekly for October 5. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

ANGLES OF A TRIANGLE. 

It was well into April before Lawrence was able to walk again. Hisconvalescence had been slow, and he was still very weak. They hadplanned to start out by the end of April, but they were compelled topostpone the journey until the middle of May. Philip was fired withimpatience. He wanted to get out to a priest and be married to Claire. She, on her part, was glad of the delay. She dreaded the hour when sheshould have to tell Philip that she would not marry him. Her joy in herlove for Lawrence was too great, however, to allow for much thoughtabout the matter. 

She looked back upon her yielding to Philip as upon a terriblenightmare, but she still liked him and could not bring herself to limitthe intimate ways which had sprung up between them. He did not imagine, therefore, that there had been any change in her. 

Claire had never told Lawrence of what he had said during his illness, but her treatment of him was very different from what it had beenbefore. He had come out of his illness with a calm assurance of hisfuture, and he knew that he loved Claire. He did not know her feeling, but as soon as he should be well he meant to tell her of his love oncemore. 

The days passed in quiet serenity. Outside the cabin the plateau flowedunder the pines into green and white and gold with dark patches of blueflowers that filled Claire's heart with song. The lake was open andglistened in the warm sun, while fish leaped in it, sending up sparklingrainbow drops. Claire took to wandering along the shore with Lawrence orPhilip, or both, talking gaily all the while. She never mentioned herhusband, it was only of their return to civilization that she spoke andof the great time the three of them would have in celebration. Theylaughed agreement with her words. 

As Lawrence grew more and more like himself there came a time, however, when Philip could not but see that Claire was giving the artist atenderness, a sweetness of companionship, and a carefully guarded joywhich he had never known. It was impossible for him to say to himselflonger that it was only her nursing manner. 

He took to watching her eyes, and again and again he caught them filledwith a deep light which they had never held for him. He now realizedthat he had always feared Claire might love Lawrence, that he had fearedit even on the day of her confession. A fierce desire of possessiongripped him, and he swore to have this woman as his wife, in spite ofLawrence, in spite of herself, if need be. It was this last frame ofmind which gained in constancy until he became a danger to Claire'shappiness. 

She saw it in his dark expression, and her heart cried out againstherself for the time of weakness. Then a great doubt would assail her. Lawrence had never spoken of love since he had regained hisconsciousness, and she wondered if, after all, his talk had been meredelirium, without basis in his normal mind. She determined to find out, and then tell Philip the frank truth. She was sure that he would receiveit as a gentleman should, and let her moment of weakness pass forgiven. She went over all their experience together, and she came to feel that, in any case, she could never live with him. Even though Lawrence did notcare, she told herself, she could go out into the world and find herplace. 

One evening she came into the house and found Philip alone, sittingdarkly over his book. She felt sorry for him, and, wanting to leave himfriendly memories, if she could, she walked quietly over to him and laidher hand on his shoulder. 

He looked up and smiled faintly, though his face remained clouded. 

"Philip, " she said, "you look worried!"

"I dare say I do, " he returned quietly, but there came into his eyes afierce light that frightened her. 

"Why should you?" she asked. 

"Claire!" He stood up and faced her. "I do not know what you think ofLawrence. I do not know what he thinks of you. I do not care. I willtell you one thing. You lay in my arms yonder and said that you would bemy wife. If you did not mean it"--he hesitated--"then you are scarcelythe type of woman to be allowed to live. Don't lead me to suspect thatsuch is the case. "

Claire gasped, realized her situation, and for the moment was carriedbeyond all power of speech. She sank in a chair and stared at him. Then, suppressing her rising fear, she said calmly: "Philip, would you have meyours against your will?"

His eyes flashed fire at her. 

"Would you say you wanted to be mine and not mean it?"

"No, " she faltered, "I--I might have meant it then. "

"Does your heart change with the passing breeze?"

She was feeling panicky. Her throat was dry and hot. 

"I hope not, " she said faintly. 

"Bah! Does it?" he demanded. 

"No, " she said, even more faintly. 

"Very well. You lay in my arms there and told me you would be my wife. Years ago, before you came into my life, another woman played with me. You shall not. I do not know what has happened to bring about the changein you. It cannot alter my will. You are mine by your own lips. It isbest for us both that I hold you to your promise. When we go out of thisplace to a priest you shall become my wife. You dare not be untrue toyourself!"

She was afraid to answer him. His dark, threatening face told her thathe was beyond reason, and she sank wearily back in her chair. In herheart she was determined never to be his, but her lips played her false. Despite her will they whispered submissively, "Very well, Philip. Iunderstand. "

He laughed aloud. "What in Heaven's name made you act like that, Claire?" he asked, once more kindly and agreeable. 

"A woman's whim!" she said, and hated herself for saying it. 

"I don't understand women, " he laughed softly. 

"Neither do I. " It was Lawrence's voice. He had come in, just in time tohear the last words. "Nor men, either--except in one thing. "

"What is the one thing?" asked Claire eagerly. 

"That, given a normal, healthy mind, they will sacrifice all their idolsfor life. Life is the one eternally insistent thing. "

Philip chuckled. "You are yourself again, I see. "

"Yes, and stronger than ever in my faith, " said Lawrence, sitting down. "I know the price I would pay for life. It is the price every humanbeing would pay, if demanded. "

"What is that price?" Philip asked. 

"The whole of one's faith in God and man!"

"Nonsense!" Philip spoke curtly. "I would die before forfeiting a dozenideals I hold dear!"

"Would you?" Lawrence looked at him quizzically. "Would you sacrificeyour own life before you would the love of your sweetheart, forinstance, if you had one?"

The conversation was similar to those which they had had months before, but the fire was nearer the surface now. 

"Yes. " Philip's answer came swiftly. 

"Then you are a sex-maddened mountaineer!"

"And you are talking like the beast you are not. I know you do notbelieve that. "

"I know I do. I would only die for a woman if she were my life. "

"But any real love finds her so. "

"Folly! I find my work, my future, my dream of a single immortal statuemore my life than any woman!" Lawrence exclaimed. 

"I wonder if you really do, " Claire mused, half to herself. 

"Yes, " Lawrence insisted, "although she might be necessary to thatstatue. At least I believe she might--and I would feel sure of it if Iwanted her badly enough, " he ended amusedly. 

"That merely means that you are still utterly selfish!" said Claire. 

"Yes, I am. " Lawrence was thoughtful. "It is a paradox, I am so selfishthat, although I would sacrifice myself to the last degree for a personI loved, yet I would all the time feel that I was a fool, that I wasdoing an absurd thing when life was so good. "

"I see, " Claire observed. "And I know I would do the same. "

"I would do it, " Philip said, "but I would not feel a fool. It wouldseem to me right. "

Claire looked straight into his eyes. "You would not, Philip, " shedeclared softly. "Your own happiness would come first--and you know it. "

The Spaniard's gaze shifted, and there was silence in the cabin. When helooked up his eyes had changed their expression. 

"Yes, " he agreed steadily, "I admit it. Hereafter I mean to have what Iwant from life at any cost. "

"Yet you will go on talking ideals, " Lawrence mocked. 

"Yes--and thinking them, too. "

"While Lawrence will make the sacrifice and go on talking hisselfishness, " Claire added. 

Both men laughed constrainedly. 

"And I, " Claire continued, "if it is necessary, will lie to preserve mywill, and, having it secure, will use it to obtain what I want. "

"We are at last three delightfully frank, insufferable, unpleasant, andvery natural, likable human beings!" Lawrence laughed. 

"And on that basis we will work out our fates, " murmured Claire. 

"We will do just that, " Lawrence answered gaily. 

"Be they good or bad, we will meet our futures with perfectself-knowledge, " contributed Philip. 

"Then most likely they will be bad, " Claire added with conviction. 

They gave up talking, and each abandoned himself to his own reflections. In the minds of the two men these thoughts assumed widely differingwords, though they were the same thoughts. 

Philip was garbing his impulses, desires, and determinations in clothesthat furnished his habitual mental wardrobe. With their marriage, hethought, Claire would learn the real Philip. He would treat her withsuch deference, such tender respect, and such devotion that she wouldsee the wisdom of her choice. He would prove to her that sex matteredlittle, was altogether secondary. It was her great companionship, herdear thoughtfulness, her charming personality that he loved. Respect, first of all: happy married life depended on respect; then, commoninterest, friendship between two human beings, and, last and leastimportant, that wonderful emotion springing out of the divine God-givenreproductive life of both. 

Lawrence was thinking very different words to the same end. He thoughtof her as his mate, his comrade, and his equal. He admired her brain, smiled at the thought of their hours of intellectual pleasure, dreamedof her as the stimulus to creation which her mind should help shape intomaster work. 

He loved her beauty and her measureless well of bubbling energy. What ahelp she could be to him! She was the greatest of all women; he wantedher, needed her. Could he realize his dream? That was the point. Well, no matter, or, at least, no use in speculating. He would try. If shewere willing, what a life of joy and accomplishment lay before them! Ifnot, he had lived alone until this time, and he could continue to livealone. Meantime, was Philip the barrier that would keep him from her? Hehoped not. He did not believe that she loved Philip. If she did, hewould be a good loser and wish her joy. His heart ached at the thought. But, after all, one doesn't die over such things, and he would recover. 

"I'm going to get the supper, " said Claire somewhat abruptly. She roseand set to work. 

Here the thoughts of the two men flowed into an identical channel. Itwas certainly good to sit and listen to her. That sound would be veryagreeable, indeed, at the end of a day, in one's own home. As for herhusband, he was out of the question. If Claire went back to him, shemight find him married or in love again, unwilling to receive her afterher long months with two men in the wilderness, suspicious of such athing being possible without more intimacies than he would care tooverlook. No, her husband did not matter. She would be justified andsafe in remarrying. Of course, not safe if she returned to America, butthat she would not do. 

At this point their thoughts diverged. Philip was seeing Claire as thecontinued inmate of his cabin. Lawrence was painting a delightful mentalpicture of Claire as the ever-present fairy of his studio in some SouthAmerican town, or perhaps in Paris. He preferred France; it was a landof more brilliance, more freedom, and certainly much more appreciationof the things in which they were interested. Besides, his work wouldcarry more prestige in the world if it came from Europe. 

He thanked the memory of old Roger Burton, of Cripple Creek, and herejoiced that he would be able to give Claire the home to which she wasentitled. He smiled as his thoughts went back to the mines and the dirtylittle newsboy an old man had befriended. Burton's quarter to Red hadkept Lawrence, the boy, from becoming a coward, and Burton's slenderprovision for the college graduate would now insure happiness forLawrence the man. Many times before he had laughed scornfully at theuntouched interest from the miner's bonds. He could make his own living. But now there would be Claire. The old man would have been glad to seehis protégé happy in the love of such a woman. 

Meanwhile Claire was doing her work automatically. In her mind there waspleasure at the thought that Lawrence was listening to her movements. But she was filled with a dead weight that seemed likely to break herdown with its dreadful pressure. Vaguely she wished that she had neverseen Philip, even that she had never seen Lawrence, or that she hadperished with him in the mountains. 

How had she ever placed herself in the position she was now in? She hadcome by the way of a terrible road and, looking ahead, she could seenothing but sadness, anguish, and a life of dull discontent withPhilip--that or death!

Lawrence had had time and opportunity since his recovery to declarehimself, and he had not done so. She had had time and opportunity totell him frankly of her own feeling, but she had not done so. She didnot know why. Now she could not. Philip had given her to understand hisdesperate determination to marry her, and, after all she had said anddone, she had no right to refuse him. If she told him the truth he mightkill Lawrence or her, or both of them. These tragic idealists, sheexclaimed to herself, what a tangle they can make out of life!

Oh, what a noose she had managed to fasten around her own neck! Wouldthe problem never be settled, one way or the other?

What would she do if Philip tried to force her to marry him? Kill him?Was she, then, so primitive, so savage, so much the slave of her owndesires that she would slay to gain her end? She remembered Lawrence'stalk when he was ill, "We killed those days, Claire, killed because wewanted fuller life, fuller knowledge, fuller expansion of our own vitalexistence; we were gropers after more light!"

"Supper!" she said dully, and then sat down. 

They ate in silence save for the occasional necessary word, andafterward went immediately to bed. 

Claire soon fell asleep, with the last thought in her mind--to live asshe wanted to live she would pay any price!

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE ROMANTIC REALIST. 

It was the 1st of May when Lawrence at last found himself alone withClaire and decided to speak. The instant he thought of declaring himselfhe was surprised at his own mental state. A panic seized him, his heartbeat unsteadily, his mouth grew dry, and he could think of nothing tosay. 

They were out on the lake shore. Philip had left them on his last longtrip across the plateau before starting for civilization. The warmspring wind blew around them, laden with scent of pine and flower. Attheir feet the water rippled and cooed little melodies. Claire sat verystill, gazing wistfully at the man beside her. Her heart was a leadweight, and her brain ached with the strain of her problem. 

It was late afternoon. All day she had wandered with Lawrence incomparative silence, wishing that he would speak, and observing thatsomething troubled him. 

Finally she moved uneasily, took her hand from her cheek, and saidhalf-dreamily, "You aren't a bit talkative. "

He gulped, swallowed, and laughed. "I'm too busy trying to think ofsomething to say, " he told her amusedly. 

"Oh!" She was provoked in the extreme. "Have I ceased to suggestconversation? You are very tired of me, then. "

"Quite the contrary. So far from it, you paralyze my tongue. "

"How complimentary!" she said. "Then I suppose your excessive argumentswith Philip denote your weariness of him?"

"They do. "

"I suppose, if you were really fond of a person, you would never talk atall?"

"Perhaps. I don't know but that you are right. "

She laughed gaily. "Lawrence, " she said, "you are certainly amusing whenyou attempt to be flattering!"

He grew warm and uncomfortable. 

"I wasn't trying to flatter. Can't you see that?" He was almost wistful. 

"I don't see it. No, if you weren't trying to flatter you were surelydoing the unintended in a most intricately original manner. "

He shifted his position and did not answer. 

"Of course, " she said, "although you aren't accustomed to flattering, you've taken to doing it almost constantly. "

"Well, why shouldn't I?" he asked curiously. 

"Why not, if you care to?" Her reply was as gentle as if she were asubmissive object of his whims. 

He felt that now was the time to speak, but he could not bring himselfto the point. The thought of his blindness killed all confidence. 

"Hang it all, " he broke out, quite as if it were a part of theirprevious talk, "blindness certainly does rob one of his will!"

She looked at him apprehensively. "I thought you had decided you werethe master of that. "

"I had, but it seems I was mistaken. "

Claire laid her hand on his arm tenderly. Her eyes were dazzling. 

"Lawrence, you must master that, you know. "

"Why?" he said thoughtfully. "If I shouldn't, it would mean only onemore human animal on the scrap heap!"

"But you don't want to be there. "

"Of course not. No one does. I don't imagine any one chooses it. "

"If you go there it will be because you choose it. "

"I wish I saw things your way, " he observed. "At times I feel as sure ofsuccess as if it were inevitable, and then suddenly down sweeps theblack uncertainty, and I am afraid, timid, and unnerved. "

She looked at him sadly. 

"Don't you believe in your work, Lawrence?"

"Yes, that is about all I do believe in. "

"Then what is the matter?"

"It is that, after all, thousands of men have believed in their work tono avail. One can never know whether he is a fad or a real artist. Itisn't only that, either. One's work, when it is his life, requires somuch besides to make it possible. It is that which gives me the bluefear you see. I always imagine that the thing I want just then isabsolutely essential to my better work. Perhaps it is. I don't know. Iknow only that I am persuaded that it is. Then I set about to get thatthing and I fail. "

"But do you always fail?" Claire was unconsciously pleading her owncause. 

"Not always. Just often enough to scare me to death when the biggestneed of my life seems just out of reach. "

"Nonsense, Lawrence, " she laughed. "When you were sick you talked as ifyou could reach out and pull down the stars, if you needed them in anendeavor to complete your life. "

"Sometimes I think I could, then the reality of life comes crashingthrough the walls of my dream-palace, and, behold, I am standingdesolate and abandoned, grasping at lights which are even too far awayto be seen! I am clawing darkness for something I fancied I could reach, while, as far as I am concerned, it is clear out of space and time. "

She sat pensively looking across the lake. 

"Yet you keep on reaching, don't you?"

"Yes--and no. I always wish I could. There are times, Claire, when Idon't want to be a realist, don't want to face life as it is, when itseems too tawdry to be valuable just as it is; then I reach out into thenight and cry, 'Let me be the maddest of dreamers, the wildest ofidealists, a knight of fancy seeking the illusive dream!'"

Claire laughed aloud as she said, "And don't you know, dear man, thatthat is just what you do become at times?"

"I know it. That's the joke of it. All the while I mock myself for beinga romancing idiot!"

"What a state of mind!" she exclaimed. 

"It isn't pleasant. Then, worse than that, when I attain my star, Ispoil it with too much scrutiny. "

She started. "What do you mean?"

"Just that. I make a mess of it. "

"Still I don't understand. "

He thought for a moment, then said sadly: "Take the cherub I carvedthere"--he nodded in the direction of the house--"I was wild withcreative fervor when I did that. I put into it a thousand littlethoughts that flashed with imaginative fire. I dreamed things, feltthings that should have made a masterpiece beyond all masterpieces, andat last the thing was finished. Still under the heat of enthusiasm, Ifelt of it, tested it, and found it good. Well, a week later, when theimaginative flame was gone, I went back and looked at it again. It waspoor, cold, imperfect, not at all what it should have been. I dreamed astar and made a block of poor wooden imagery. "

"But you underestimate your work. To me the cherub is still a star. "

He laughed. "It is what others see of good in my work that makes me hopethat sooner or later I will do the thing that will stand eternally astar of the first magnitude. "

"And you will, Lawrence, " she said earnestly. 

"Perhaps. " He was pensive. "Perhaps not. That is where the rest of lifeenters in. I want many things; they seem necessary if I am to attain myeternal star. I am afraid I shall never get them!"

"Have you tried?"

"No, I haven't the courage. If they should be beyond my grasp, ifobtaining them, they should prove to be wrong and not the real things Ineed, after all, what then?"

"I don't know. " She waited to watch a little colored cloud float by, andthen continued: "Isn't the real interest in life the game you play?"

"I suppose it is, but it's hard on other people. "

"Why--and how?"

"Suppose, " Lawrence said slowly, "you were the one thing I thought Ineeded. "

Claire leaned toward him, her lips apart, her heart beating wildly. 

"Suppose I were sure of it, and set about to make you part of my life, well, if I succeeded and then"--he smiled sadly--"found that you werenot the necessity, not the answer to my need, what of you? It would bean inferno for you, and none the less equally terrible for me! Wecouldn't help it. Under such circumstances you would be right in sayingthat I had been unfair. I don't know, certainly you would be right incharging your possible unhappiness to me. "

"Under your supposition, Lawrence, " she answered evenly, "if youobtained my love, wouldn't it then be my game, my risk in the greatgamble for deeper life? Wouldn't it be my mistake for having thought youwere what I needed?"

"What if you still thought you needed me after I was sure that I did notneed you?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I am too fond of life and too eager to knowits possibilities to let that hurt me long. Possibly I should weep, becynical, maybe even do something desperate, but at last I would come upsmiling, calm in the faith that my life was deeper, richer for theexperience, and that yours was, too. Or if it proved that yours was not, I should be amused at the shallowness of the Claire that was, for havingbeen so simple a dunce as to imagine that you were worth while. I shouldthank you for teaching the present Claire to forsake that shallow one, and should find you a rung on my ladder of life!"

He laughed merrily. "You are strong in your faith, Claire. "

"Yes. This winter and you have made me strong, " she answered. 

"I have made you strong in it?"

"Yes. Last summer, when you dragged me out of the surf, I was full of anumber of ideas I no longer possess. "

"But what have I done?"

"You have lived stridently all your life. "

"Perhaps so. What of it?"

"I see that is the thing most worth doing. "

"What will your husband say to such a doctrine?"

"I don't know. I am not going back to him. We are not the same people wewere a year ago, and he would no more love the present Claire than Ishould love the present Howard. "

The sky deepened from pink to crimson, but Claire's eyes were staringblankly on the ground. 

"Claire, what do you think is essential to great work?"

"I don't know. To keep at it most likely. " She was digging with a littlestick in the grass. 

"Perhaps you're right, " he agreed. "But sometimes I think it is a lot ofother things; romantic wandering over the earth, a deep and lastinglove, any number of such external factors. "

"You don't call love external, do you?"

"I mean a permanent love, " he laughed. 

"Oh, well, perhaps those are necessary, certainly they would be a helpto you, they would be to any one. But, after all, even a woman isn'tabsolutely essential to a man in order that he create great art. "

"I think she is, " Lawrence insisted. 

"Very well, perhaps she is, but"--Claire laughed skeptically--"I knowthat she is not the all in all, the alpha and omega, the 'that withoutwhich nothing, ' that she is so often told she is by seeking males. "

"No, " he agreed slowly, "in rare cases of great love that may be true, but in most cases it isn't. "

"It is more likely that what you, the abstract male, really mean is thatyou must have some woman as wife and housekeeper. "

"Perhaps that is so, although even that needs qualifying. "

"I know, " she said, "but why not be frank about it both ways; that isprecisely her situation as well as his. There ought to be lesssentimental rubbish and more plain sense about all of it. Women wouldsuffer less from shattered illusions, they would grow accustomed toreality, and be considerably less idiotic in their romantic caperings. "

"I admit it, " Lawrence said, smiling; "and yet"--he paused--"I want tobe the maddest of romanticists, I want to say those things to the womanI love, I want to think them about her, I want to feel them all, allthose dear, false romantic deceptions. I do, in fact, even though mybrain agrees with you. "

"So should I, and I would. " Then she added softly under her breath, "Ido. "

Lawrence turned a little toward her, his fingers gripping the grass infront of him. 

"Claire, " he said slowly, "I--I want to say them, think them, believethem about and with you. "

She did not move. Over her there swept a great joy, and her thinkingstopped. She was feeling all the dear things she had just condemned, andshe looked at her lover. He was blind. He could not see what was in herface, and he was not sure that he interpreted her silence correctly. Hewas waiting, anguishing, for her answer. She realized then what it washe needed more than he himself knew. 

"Lawrence, " she cried joyfully, slipping into his arms, "I know what youneed, beloved!"

He laughed exultantly as he showered kisses upon her eagerly upturnedface. 

"I guess you do, sweetheart, " he consented. "What is it?"

She settled down with a sigh of content, her head against his shoulder, and announced, very much like a child saying what it knows to be wiselytrue: "You need a woman who is keen enough to think with you and be eyesfor you, natural and unspoiled by conventional sham enough to be yourheart's answer, self-willed enough to be herself and deny you and yourselfishness, and, above all, mother enough to care for you as she woulda child. I believe I am that woman, dearest boy!"

He held her tight in his arms and smiled. 

"I not only think, I know you are. "

For a long time they sat in silence, dreaming, loving, enjoying, andcaring nothing for all the rest of the world. At last Claire raised herhead from his shoulder and whispered, "Lawrence, before I would beseparated from you, I am afraid I would kill!"

He chuckled merrily. "Good!" he said. "That sounds proper. So would I. We are alive because our ancestors killed to live, they fought to mate, so shall we, if need be. "

She remembered Philip and shuddered slightly. 

"What is the matter, Claire?" Lawrence drew her closer. 

She did not answer. She was wondering how to tell him about Philip, andafraid. 

"Are you filled with terror at the mere thought of murder!" he asked. 

She moved uneasily in his arms. "No, but I can't say I like to eventhink of such a possibility. "

"Don't, then. It isn't very likely to happen, " he comforted. 

She remained silent, but her pleasure was not untroubled. Her wholeimpulse was to wait, but her brain kept demanding that she tell him now, and she gathered herself for the effort. 

"Lawrence"--she hesitated--"I--I have something I must tell you. "

"All right. Go ahead; but confessions never do much good. "

She drew away from him tenderly. 

"Because my whole being wants to be in your arms, I will not--not whileI tell you, " she said, sitting beside him. "I want you to hear and thinkwithout my body in your arms as a determining factor in your answer. "

"Very well. Go ahead. I promise to be an emotionless judge. "

"Can you?" she asked quickly. 

"No, " he said, "but I will. "

They both laughed, and she nerved herself to talk. 

"It's about Philip, " she said timidly. 

He started. 

"Don't tell me about him, Claire, " he said. "It can't do any good, andit's hard for you, I see. Whatever you are or were to Philip doesn'tmatter to me in the least. The Claire of this morning wasn't my mate. Itis only Claire from now on that counts, and she is not in any way boundto Philip for whatever may have occurred in the past. "

"Oh, I wish that were true!" she moaned. 

"It is true, " he asserted. 

"But you don't understand. Let me go on, please. "

"Surely, " he answered. "Say as much or as little as you wish. "

She told him then, falteringly, sometimes wondering at his calm, expressionless face as she talked. She was filled with dread, for he satas still as death, without a word, without a change of expression toshow her what he was thinking. She made many corrections to herexplanation, and supplied bits of comment in an effort to discoverherself how it all had happened. There was nothing of apology in herattitude, however, and she finally concluded with an account of thatafternoon in her bedroom, and what she had said to Philip since thatday. 

"Now, " she said at last, "you know all about it. You can do as youplease, of course. If you choose to go on, we will have to find somesolution together. Philip will not take it easily. Of that I am sure. Heis more than likely to become desperate. "

She waited. Lawrence did not move. His face was seriously thoughtful, and she was filled with a growing fear that made it harder and harder towait for him to speak. 

When she could stand it no longer, she shook his arm. 

"Lawrence, why don't you say something?" she cried. 

He read the fear in her voice, and laughed caressingly, as he took herin his arms. 

"I thought you knew it wouldn't alter our futures, " he said. "I was onlytrying to think out a just solution unpersuaded by your body in myarms. "

"Oh!" She laughed comfortably. He was making fun of her, and she was notaverse to it. 

"It certainly looks as if Philip were up against a bad future, " he wenton, amusedly. 

"Philip!" she cried, startled. "Are you pitying him all this time?"

"Whom else?" Lawrence demanded. "We don't need pity, do we?"

"Oh, you selfish lover!" she chided. "I have been needing and do needit. Philip worries me. "

"I see, " he mused. "Well, accept my condolences, and prepare to passthem on to Philip. Poor devil! When you and I are back in our world, hewill indeed need pity. "

"Suppose he takes steps to see that I don't go back?" she chanced. 

"He can scarcely compel you to live with him. "

"He can, and he will. He isn't as civilized as he appears. If need be, he would keep me locked up here and make me his by force, or kill me. He told me so. "

Lawrence shrugged his shoulders. 

"Romantic raving for effect!" he exclaimed. "But if he should happen totry that, well, I think my argument might be as effective as his. "

"But how do you propose to stop him? I tell you, he is in earnest. "Claire was insistent. 

"Why, in whatever way is necessary. If it is my life against his, I'llgive him the best I've got. "

She looked at Lawrence in wonder. He was as calm as if he had beenmaking small talk at a theater-party. 

"Can you plan it so--so carelessly, like that?" she asked. 

"Why not? I could hardly allow him to take you by force. I wouldn'tchoose a fight as a diversion, but once in, I wouldn't stop short of hislife. And I wouldn't feel any compunction afterward, either. "

"Well, " she said quickly, "it won't be necessary. "

"I think not. " He smiled. "We need say nothing about our plans. Once weget into town, all the world is ours, and we can quietly depart, leavingPhilip Ortez a very pleasant memory. "

They both laughed heartily. 

Neither of them allowed for that vast portion of human character whichlies beyond the knowledge of the most keen-visioned. Claire was morefamiliar with the distinctly male phases of Philip thanLawrence--perhaps a woman always is--but they were too happy to give thematter any real consideration, and, after the fashion of all lovers, they shut out the third person from their little self-bound universe. 

The whole world seemed a friendly sphere whose entire action was merelyto bring them together, and they were utterly oblivious to Philip andhis new attitude. It seemed so impossible that anything serious couldarise to separate them from each other. 

It was late when Philip returned, and he was instantly aware of thechange in his guests. The old, serious silence was gone from Lawrence;he was not the speculative man to whom Philip was accustomed. His talkwas light, pleasantly humorous, and very genial. He was, in short, thelover. Claire, too, shone with a new radiance. 

Doubt rearose in Philip's heart, and grew rapidly into suspicion. Hebecame less responsive to their chatter. His dark eyes grew somber withmisgiving, and love swelled into longing that made him feel sure thatClaire was necessary to his life. Without her there could be no livingfor him. He wondered if she and Lawrence had found love. "If they have, "he argued, "there can be but one explanation. Claire is unreliable, vicious, and dangerous. " His aching desire to possess her did notlessen, however. It became deeper, in fact, with each succeeding thoughtof her as a wanton at heart, and he set his teeth over his will, assuring himself that all would be well when Lawrence was gone. 

He took to avoiding absences, and to watching furtively for someconfirmation of his suspicion. Claire was instinctively cautious, and hesaw nothing that could actually be construed against her. He was of thattype of man whose love, burning into jealousy, does battle with idealswhich stand against his suspicions and demand actual physical proofbefore retiring and allowing the beast to run riot. 

He knew no middle ground. Once he had seen that which would condemnClaire, he would be utterly savage. His soul anguished to bitterness atevery thought against her purity and truth. He could not accept her asshe was. His suspicion painted her black with the sticky ink of a morbididealist, while his faith, rising from the same ideals, made her seemalmost ethereal. His longing for her was an acute physical pain, and henever allowed his ideals to stop his romancing. He insisted that hisdesire be stated in masking phrases and deceiving glories of chivalrousprattle. He was so torn by his conflicting emotions and ideals that hewas fast arriving at a state where his action would be that of a woundedbeast at bay. He did not know and would not admit that his own distortedview of Claire was back of his own condition. True to his type, hecarried this war in silence, and sought support for his fast-weakeningideals in argument. He was wise. Defend your faith if you would keep itglowing. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE LAST DISCUSSION. 

The time of their departure was at hand. There had been two days ofintense packing of the food and clothing necessary for theirtwo-hundred-mile walk. Now that was behind them, and after a short tripwhich Philip must take the following morning, they would be off for theten or fifteen miles they hoped to cover that day. 

When night came they were overjubilant, and they sat before the cabinwatching the lake as it shimmered in the moonlight. Claire was pensivelysilent, though her heart sang. She was dreaming out her days, paintingthem on the moonlit water, and she paid very little heed to the two men, though unconsciously her whole personality leaned toward Lawrence. Whatthey were saying she did not at first know, but gradually her attentionwas caught and she listened earnestly with an ever-growing fear in herheart. 

She saw the deep fire that burned in Philip's eyes, and she realizedthat Lawrence was unaware of how his provocative, half-humorous ironieswere stirring the volcano within the man who sat beside him. 

"No man has a right, " Philip was saying, "to think of a woman in hishouse unless he can think of her as altogether trustworthy, pure, andbeyond temptation. If he does think of her differently, he is a beast, and wants a mistress, not a wife. "

Lawrence laughed carelessly. "The average man wants both in one, " hesaid. "Personally, so far as your talk about suspicion goes, who needsto think either way? I'm sure I don't. I'm quite content to live with awoman, giving and taking what we can enjoy together, and not asking thatshe limit her time and devotion to me. She may have various outsideinterests of her own. In fact, I would prefer that life should hold aseparate work for her. "

"Oh, you do not care. You are too selfish to feel any responsibilityfor a woman's soul. I would feel depraved if I did not guard my wife'ssoul by my very faith in her. "

"Why should you guard her soul? Isn't the average woman intelligentenough to look out for herself? What she does, she does because shewants to, and for Heaven's sake, man, let her have the right to freedomof being. "

"But real freedom of being lies in her dependence on me as the head ofthe house, " Philip protested. 

"If you happen to be the head of the house, " Lawrence added jestingly. 

"But I would be the head of the house. It is my right and my duty. "

"Poor Mrs. Ortez, if there ever is one, " Lawrence continued, joking. "She is to be guarded by a great, aggressive, possessing husband. Whatif she happens to want something you don't approve of?"

"She won't. A good woman doesn't. "

"But suppose your woman isn't good, and does?"

"I should have to explain to her her mistake. "

"And then when she says, 'But I don't regard it as a mistake, I think itwas quite right, ' what will you do?"

"I wouldn't have a woman who would hold such views. "

"What is it you want for a wife, Philip? A brainless feminine body whois content to be your slave?"

"I should be ashamed to speak of any woman I cared for in those terms. One doesn't marry a woman who can be thought of in terms of sex. "

"Perhaps 'one doesn't. ' I would. I should want her to be very well awareof her exact physical potentialities, and to think enough about them tounderstand herself. "

"Then you would want an unwholesome wife, my friend. "

"Not at all. I want a natural one, that's all. Moreover, " he addedjoyously, "I shall have one. "

Philip glanced at him quickly. Into his mind flashed the memory ofClaire's words in the room that fatal afternoon. 

"I shall never marry such a woman, " he declared, and added: "But I meanto have one whose devotion is so pure that even her talk to me of suchthings will be holy. "

Lawrence laughed heartily. 

"Philip, " he said, still chuckling, "you seem to think we human beingsare half supernatural and half stinking dirt. Why, in Heaven's name, don't you once see us as plain, healthy, intelligent animals?"

"Because we're half gods, half beasts. "

"So I was once told by the son of an ancient mind whose farthest mentalfrontier reached A. D. 1123. "

Philip rose and faced Lawrence, then looked shamefacedly at Claire, andsat down again. 

"You think you are advanced because you are still unaware of anythingbut beasthood!"

Lawrence grinned complacently. 

"I am always amused at the way men speak of beasts as if they weresomething base, " he said. "'Beast' should not be a term of opprobrium. The average dog or elephant, for example, is fairly wholesome and quitenaturally proper in his fulfilment of instincts. It is more than one cansay for men. Yes, I am a beast, if by that you you mean a physicalbeing; and if humanity ever does get anywhere in quest for a soul Isuspect it will have to start from that very admission. "

"Of course"--Philip hesitated a little--"we are animals in that sense. But who can think of us as nothing more? Take Claire, for example. Weboth know her better than any one else. I could scarcely think of her asan animal, subject only to its instincts. Even allowing that she is avery intelligent animal, it isn't all or even the better part of her, any more than it is of any good woman. "

The speech was self-revealing, and Lawrence smiled. 

"Now, it is strange, " he observed; "that is precisely the way I shouldthink of Claire if I wanted to see her in the best possible light, asthe most splendidly intelligent, healthy animal I ever knew. "

"You are more insulting than you intend. I am glad that you do not meanto be, " Philip growled. 

"Tra-la-la. I shouldn't insult her for a good deal. "

"Yet your attitude is debasing, " Philip retorted. 

"Oh, well, perhaps. She has my apology if she thinks so. "

"But you can't actually mean what you say, " Philip went on. "Yourattitude would lead you to make a cave of your home, and a mere lair ofyour bed. "

"Which, by the way, very elaborately arranged, and embellished withthousands of psychological phases, products of the most highlyspecialized part of me, is exactly what my home would be. "

"Well, I certainly should deplore your household. "

"Go as far as you like. It ought to be a fairly comfortable home, withits basis on frankness, oughtn't it, Claire?"

Philip's eyes flashed. 

Claire hesitated, fearing lest she provoke him further, and saidcautiously: "Yes, it ought to be based on frankness. "

"But frankness doesn't mean an attitude of mind like that, " Philipprotested. 

"What does it mean?" Lawrence asked. 

"It means an established order where love makes it possible for twobeings to speak their thoughts freely one to the other, " Philip said, with the air of defining infinity. 

"Does it? Well, if that is frankness by definition, I have known manywomen with whom I was in love, but neither they nor I knew it until thisminute. "

Lawrence laughed. Philip flushed, shrugged his shoulders, and stood up. 

"I thank goodness I do not see things as you do, " he said. 

"Even the parable of the Pharisee has its modern aspect, " Lawrencemurmured chucklingly. 

Philip stood looking moodily across the lake, and fortunately did notcatch his words. 

"I think I shall walk a little, " he said coldly. "I can't sleep until Ihave walked some of your conversation out of my soul. "

"Go to it, " Lawrence said with a smile. "I didn't mean to corrupt you. "

"You didn't. You simply make me angry. I'm sorry, but you do. "

"Yes? So am I. However, it won't last much longer, Philip. "

Both men smiled at the thoughts that came with those words. 

"I think I shall go in, " Lawrence went on. "I shall want sleep for thebig start to-morrow. "

Philip looked hopefully at Claire. She rose with a sigh of weariness, pretending not to see him. 

"So shall I, " she said. "Good night, both of you. "

She was gone into the cabin, and Philip looked disappointed. He turneddown the lake shore, dreaming of the end of his journey, rebelling atthe necessity for Claire to listen to Lawrence's talk, and rejoicing athow different his life with her would be. 

Inside the cabin, Lawrence closed the door and stepped into the room. Claire stood waiting silently before him, and when he came to her, shethrew her arms happily around his neck. He laughed and caught her up. 

"So you lie in wait for me, do you?" he teased. 

"Why not? I want to capture my man, " she said softly. 

"You have him, dearest. And, by the way"--he sat down and drew her on tothe arm of his chair--"permit me to extend you my sympathy for thesuffering you must have experienced at the thought of living withPhilip. "

She shuddered a little, and laughed. 

"Such frankness as his home would permit!" she said. "I'm afraid ourhearth would not radiate warmth. "

"Nothing could warm such a home into anything like the real thing, "Lawrence mused. "It was my privilege when in college to stay for a timein a home where the people had really attained the ideal. It was theonly home that ever made me envious. "

"I shall make you such a home, dear, " she whispered. 

"No, we will have a mere cave, a lair, " he laughed. 

She shook her long hair down over his face playfully. 

"Will you be a savage old cave man?" she asked. 

"I shall. As savage as they ever made them in the golden age, " heanswered, and drew her down against him. 

"I shall like that, " she said, her eyes full of a warm, dreamy light. 

"You will be terribly abused by your beast husband, " Lawrence saidgaily. 

"I think sometimes, Lawrence, that I could enjoy being hurt by yourhands--having them really cause me pain. "

He gripped her tightly against him and his hands tightened. 

"Claire, " he said, "a man never knows what there is in his nature till awoman like you whispers in his ear. You make me afraid at what I feelwithin me. "

"I know, " she said. "I'm afraid, too, of what there is in you, but justthe same I'm going to be the happiest woman in the world. "

"I hope so, " he said. "But you will have to defend yourself againstselfishness. "

"I have to do that already, " she laughed, "but I don't mind. I can, andthat is the main thing. Besides, when you really want anything verymuch, you have a way of forcing me to want it, too, my master-lover!"

He laughed joyously. "Claire, " he said, "if we ever do go to smash, youand I, there will have been a glorious day and a glorious house to smashwith. It won't be a petty breaking of toy dishes!"

"No, " she whispered, "it will be the breaking of life's foundations. "

She slipped from his arms and into her room. Philip was coming in. Lawrence sat down in a chair and Philip threw himself on his bed insilence. 

He was caught in the inevitable result of his beliefs. He had arguedwith Lawrence because he was troubled. His whole being was filled with agreat fear. Remembering how Lawrence and Claire had acted lately, he hadbeen thrown into a fever of jealous rage. He was utterly beyond hisdepth now, and he was silent because to speak would have meant to breakinto accusation. His imagination had pictured Claire in Lawrence's armswhile he was gone; if he had actually known the truth it would have beenless agonizing than the picture. 

He lay there filled with his own thoughts and dreading the moment whenLawrence would come and lie down beside him. Behind her curtain he heardClaire moving about, humming a little song, and it added to his torture. He turned restlessly on his bed and groaned. 

Lawrence raised his head. He, too, was dreaming of Claire, but hisimaginings, vividly alluring in their appeal, were filled with thecontent of happiness. Claire was his. That was certain, and those sweetdreams should be fulfilled again and again in his life, with a growingdepth that would make them the more beautiful. What a creature of wondershe was--and she was his--his, to love, to enjoy, to master, and to workfor. Yes, and to work with. He would find her the needed impulse andidea to form his great work. She would make him the creative artist, thesculptor that he felt he had the power to be. 

Philip muttered something, and Lawrence turned toward him. 

"Feeling bad?" he asked genially. 

Philip did not answer. 

"You aren't ill, are you?" Lawrence's voice was full of real concern. Hewas thinking that it would be bad if they had to stay here a whilelonger. 

"No. Only in spirit. I will be all right to-morrow. "

Philip turned over, and Lawrence sat down again to dream. 

For a long time he remained there, meditating, and at last he arose togo to bed. Philip was asleep and breathing heavily. Claire was moving alittle. Lawrence stopped to listen. The curtain parted, her arms slippedaround his neck, and silently there in the darkness she kissed himpassionately, eagerly. He held her tightly, her soft, warm figurethrilling him with joy. 

Philip turned restlessly, and she hastily drew back, stealing a lastswift kiss. Lawrence walked toward his bed. He heard a low, stiflinglittle laugh, then all was still in the cabin. Claire had laughed forvery joy at her love. He smiled tenderly. Dear little woman, she wasindeed a wealth untold to him. What a life theirs would be after theygot away from Philip!

Poor Philip, his would indeed be a sad fate, with his ideals here toworry him after they were gone. Well, he wasn't the sort that one couldhelp. Let him work out his own destiny. Lawrence lay down comfortably, and sending a thousand dear thoughts flying across the silent room, hefell asleep while he smiled at his own romancing. 

CHAPTER XX. 

THE LAW OF LIFE. 

The last morning at the cabin was bright and sunny, with the warmmystery of the day promising an infinity of strength for the future. Allthree of them felt it and were carried along in dreams of anticipatedrelief. Breakfast over, Philip helped Lawrence and Claire get theirpacks ready. When everything was done, he said cheerily: "I will be goneless than an hour in getting that farthest trap--I am going to makequick speed--and then we will be off. "

They laughed with the joy that was filling their hearts. 

"Don't be longer than you can help, Philip, " Claire admonished, andLawrence added: "Every minute that divides us from our life ahead seemsan eternity. "

Claire smiled at the dear thoughts his words provoked. 

"Good, " said Philip in the doorway. "I'll hurry. " And he was gone. 

Claire and Lawrence stood in the doorway while Philip went singing downthe lake shore. Her eyes filled with a warm light, and she slipped herhand into Lawrence's. 

"At this moment, dear, " she said, "I feel only pity for him. He is goingto be hurt. "

"Who wouldn't be, dearest, at losing you?"

"Always flattering, " she teased. They stood arm in arm, leaning againstthe door-casing. 

"Claire, " he said, "let's take a last walk around our estate. The placewhere I first found the real, you will always be beautiful to me. I'mless blind this morning than I've been in my life. "

"Of course you are, " she said gaily. "You've acquired two good eyes. "

"And two dear hands and a very wonderful personality that makes medoubly able, " he said softly. 

They wandered out across the plateau in the direction from which theyhad first entered it. Their conversation was broken and oftenmeaningless, but eminently pleasing to them both. 

"Dear heart, " Claire mused softly, "you don't know what that poor, freezing, underfed woman in your naked arms felt when she heard youmuttering that you needed her, as you stumbled down this ravine. "

"How did she feel?"

Claire was dreaming back, and she wanted to tell him, but she found heremotions too complex and too rapid for expression. 

"And then when you added that it was to use her as a subject for a stoneimage, " laughed Claire, "she was furious with you, and yet she was verysure that she didn't want you to care about her in any other way. "

"Then perhaps I am making a mistake, " he jested. 

"Perhaps, my dearest, but I am so glad of it that I don't care if youare. "

He caught her in his arms. They were very near the great point inlovers' lives when emotions always tend to break all restraint. Sheclung to him passionately, her lips yielding and holding his in arapture of love. Together they swayed toward a great tree and sat down. 

When they returned to the cabin, they were surprised to find Philipstill gone. With the whimsicality of lovers, they dismissed him fromtheir thoughts and sat down in the armchair together, laughing andtalking of the past. Their conversation ran gradually into a clearlydefined discussion in which both minds were compelled to think quickly, and they found new joy in their love. Even now, when their whole mindswere swayed by emotion, they were able to think, to talk, and to bealive to everything in the world of intellect. 

Art, religion, and life, all in a grand mix-chaotic tangle. Lawrencewas talking for the joy of his thought to the woman who he knew wouldenjoy it. 

"You see, Claire, " he said after a long discussion, "in the religiousinstinct we find very little besides a fear of the unknown. What elsethere is in it is the more valuable part, and it is this lesser sectionthat we can develop and use to advantage. "

"What is this lesser section?" she asked. 

"The vital desire to create for our God's sake. If we could build thatinto its real place, stimulated as it is by the overwhelmingappreciation of beauty in nature, we could establish something far moreworth while than a mere deceiving of men about their own kind, theirfaults, and their relations. "

"You aren't quite fair, Lawrence, " she protested. "In so far as thechurch makes for a stronger socialization, it is a good. "

"But does it always promote that very effectively? Most of thesocialization could be better carried on where really educated peoplewere educators. The few of them there are in our schools now arehampered as much as they are helped by the church. "

"I don't agree, " she said. "The church does hamper education in higherbranches, undoubtedly, but in the kindergartens and grades it is agood. "

"I don't know, " he responded; "I never saw it. "

"Well, " she cried suddenly, and laughed, "whatever we think of thechurch, I agree that religion isn't always there, and when it is, barring a few liberal exceptions, it is generally misdirected. "

"And here you and I sit in the Andes Mountains talking when we might bemaking love, " he laughed. 

"And here we are making love under the pretense of being intellectual, "she rejoined. "What would we do without the dear deceptions that make ussuch pitiably delightful animals?"

"We'd be a hopelessly unimaginative set of eaters. " His answer wasquick. "I am convinced that it is our very power to deceive, plan grandfollies, though petty in deeds, that makes us artists, dreamers, thinkers, and statesmen. "

"Perhaps, " she agreed, and then slipped her arms around him suddenly. "Is that what makes us able lovers, too?"

He laughed. "By Jove, I believe it is!" he exclaimed. "Well, olduniversal tangle, I do truly thank you for the power to be a foolish, deceived, human being. Hurrah for the instinct that makes me call you mydivine necessity, Claire. "

She laughed happily and leaned against his shoulder. 

"For any instinct or deception that makes you more enjoyable, let usgive thanks, " he repeated. 

"And for all the dear bodily claims that make me your adored one I dogive thanks, Lawrence, " she whispered. 

Their lips met again. She drew back startled, and sprang to her feetwith a cry of terror. 

Philip stood in the doorway, looking at them with a face from which allhuman sentiment was gone. He was a raging beast. 

"Lawrence, " she screamed. "Philip!"

Her lover sprang to his feet. Now he realized his blindness and its truehandicap. Philip was there, somewhere before him, thinking what he couldnot know. He waited, every muscle strained with expectant fear andanger. 

Claire was staring at Philip with abject terror in her face. Lawrencecould not know that, he only heard her breathing heavily, andinstinctively his arm went out to her. 

"Don't be afraid, dear, " he said tenderly. 

The man in the door uttered an exclamation. "So"--and his words weresharp as icicles--"that is your damned wanton way. You are the secondharlot I have loved. "

Lawrence started forward angrily. 

"Fool!" he ejaculated. 

Claire's warning scream gave him just time to brace his body. Philip hadsprung at him like a wild beast, and the impact of his weight sentLawrence staggering backward. In that moment the Spaniard's hand closedon his throat. The blind man was paying the price of his defect in hislong-talked-of primitive battle for life. 

Even then he thought of the scene as it must be, and smiled bitterly, while his hand went to his throat and tore at the wrist that wassteeling itself to rob him of breath. 

Had he been able to see, the fight would still have been unequal. Philipwas taller, wirier, and quicker on his feet. Lawrence's one advantagelay in his keen, quick response to touch sensation, and that gave himhis sense of direction and ability to move rightly. 

With one hand he tore at Philip's wrist, while with the other he reachedsteadily for Philip's face. 

They had knocked over the chairs and were staggering against the table. 

From the corner by the fireplace Claire watched them in an agony ofdread. It was indeed her time of test. 

She saw Lawrence's hand clutching at the flesh of Philip's cheek. Theywere panting like two beasts. It was the primitive battle of males forthe female of their choice. 

Philip's hand was torn free from Lawrence's throat. The blind manlaughed as his lungs filled with air. She heard him mutter betweenclenched teeth: "By God, I'll spoil your advantage. "

They were struggling again for throat holds. 

Lawrence was protecting his own, but the hand he had wrenched freeclosed around his arm, bending it back slowly, irresistibly toward thepoint where it must break. She screamed and covered her eyes for asecond at what her lover was doing--she saw him deliberately gouge atPhilip's eyes with his thumb held hard. 

She heard both men fall, and looked again in spite of herself. They wereon the floor writhing, their bodies against each other, clawing, striking, digging, and biting like two wild gorillas. 

Now Lawrence was on top, now underneath, but she could not help but seethat Philip was slowly gaining. Though badly injured in one eye, hestill fought on unhesitatingly, forcing Lawrence nearer and nearer todeath. The artist was even now ceasing to resist, his struggle hadbecome spasmodic. Her lover was being choked to death. She sprang to herfeet. 

"Lawrence!" she screamed. "Lawrence!"

He was being killed in a battle for the possession of her. Could shestand still and see the man she loved murdered? Her hair fell about hershoulders in a mass. She swept it back from her face, looked franticallyaround her, then rushed to the wall-cupboard on the other side of thecabin and drew out a long meat-knife. 

The touch of the steel in her hand carried her out beyond the lastbarrier of civilized thought. For a moment she was the savage throughand through. With a scream like that of a wounded lioness whose cub isin danger, she sprang toward them, the knife uplifted. 

Then she stopped. Something paralyzed her--generations of inheritedinhibition, conscience, what you will. "O God!" she moaned miserably, asthe weapon fell from her hand. 

It clattered on the wooden floor close beside the two men. Philip lookedup, and his white teeth gleamed in a grim smile. Claire realized whatshe had done--she had placed the means of certain triumph within reachof her lover's enemy. She stooped to regain the knife, but it was toolate. Philip released his grip on Lawrence's throat, leaned over, andseized the blade. 

It was a mistake. Lawrence was far past consciousness of what he wasdoing, but his body still instinctively obeyed his will. As the weightfrom his chest was eased for a moment, he writhed his body into a freerposition and his arms struck out wildly. 

Philip saw his danger and raised the knife. The scene passed in asecond, but to Claire it was as if they were petrified for hours in thatposition--she half-kneeling there, her arm outstretched, and Philipastride Lawrence's body, holding the knife in midair. In that lastpicture, carved upon Claire's agonized gaze, all the Spaniard's beautywas gone forever--he was a monster, his face distorted, one eye closed, his smile broadening into a hideous dog-like grin. 

Philip's arm came down. As it did so, it was struck from above byLawrence's, swinging aimlessly in a wide sweep. The blade, deflectedwith double force, entered deep into Philip's breast. 

For just one instant an expression of angry and almost ludicroussurprise leaped across the Spaniard's face as his teeth snapped shut. Then his whole body twisted round violently, rolled over, and lay stillbeside Lawrence's equally motionless form. 

Claire tottered back into a chair, and stared at them stupidly. Silencereigned in the cabin where there had been chaos. Slowly from underPhilip's body a red line spread to a blotch on the floor. Lawrence waslying there, his head almost touching it. 

Claire gazed and gazed, while she felt as if she must faint from thedreadful illness which seized her. Suddenly Lawrence was sitting up, hisblackened face growing less terrible to look upon. He put his hands tohis throat, and then, as the pain in his lungs decreased, he roseunsteadily. For a moment he balanced himself carefully, rubbing histhroat. 

Then he cried hoarsely: "Claire!"

She moistened her lips with her tongue, but could not answer. 

He stooped and began to feel across the floor. She saw his hands, thosesensitive hands, move toward Philip's dead body. They would be in hisblood presently. 

She started forward. "Lawrence!" she screamed. 

He stopped abruptly. Her tone had filled him with dread wonder. 

"What is it, Claire?" he whispered. 

She stood a moment, silently looking at him. 

He straightened and stepped toward her, "What is it?" he demanded. 

She swayed unsteadily and sank into his arms, sobbing, her body wrenchedwith the agony. 

"Take me outside, " she whispered fearfully. 

He lifted her and carried her out into the sunlight. 

She sat down on the ground and wept bitterly, while he sat silentlybeside her, seeking to comfort her with his arms. 

At last she said in an awed tone: "Lawrence, he is dead. Killed by hisown blow--with his own knife. But I might have done it. I--I thought ofit. "

She remembered the touch of the knife in her hands, the sight ofPhilip's blood seeping out around his own body. 

"It is terrible, " she moaned. "I--I might have done it. "

Her lover's hands tightened spasmodically. His face went white, thenbecame normal again. She watched him, hypnotized. Would he tell her thatshe was as good as a murderer, that he could not love her now?

He wet his lips, then suddenly laughed aloud. Claire could have screamedat the sound. She clutched his arm and shook him. 

"Stop it!" she commanded. "What is it, Lawrence?"

He stood up and lifted her beside him. 

"I must have a drink, " he said calmly. 

She stared at him, then brought him some water from beside the cabin. Hedrank it easily, but with some pain. Finally he dropped the cup at hisfeet. 

"Life is a wonderful thing, Claire. "

She was still too shaken to do aught but gaze at him. 

"What now?" she asked at last, falteringly. 

He heard the fear, half anguish and half hope, in her voice, andsuddenly he caught her to him and cried buoyantly: "What now? Life, Claire, life! We have the whole world before us. It was my life or his. I am glad it was not mine. " He smiled. "Well, we have staged the greatanimal stunt. I have fought for the possession of life. "

She let her head fall on his shoulder. 

"Then--then I am not repulsive to you?" she choked. 

"Repulsive! Why?" His voice was full of wonder. 

"I--I thought of murdering him, " she whispered. 

"Claire, " he answered tenderly, "human beings think many things theydon't and can't do. That is part of our old heritage. But let's get awayfrom here, Claire. Staying here won't do either of us any good. What isdone is done. We cannot help it. Very well, then the best thing to do isto forget it. Shall we start?"

She stepped back and looked at him. He was all energy, clear-countenanced, free, frank, and normal. 

"Yes, I am ready. "

She stooped and took up her pack from beside the door. He took his andthrew it over his shoulder. Hand-in-hand they started forward and outtoward civilization. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

INTO THE SUNLIGHT. 

All that day they talked little. Both were occupied with their ownthoughts. Lawrence was dreaming of his work, his future with Claire, andthe home that was to be. Claire was pondering Lawrence's words, "Humanbeings think many things they don't and can't do. " To her these wordshad been both a great comfort and a startling awakening. Almostinstantly had returned an idea which she had thought forever gone, andall day it kept growing. 

That night they camped beside a stream under great trees where tiny blueflowers winked up at them from the deep grass. After supper they satbeside their fire dreaming. At last Lawrence took her in his arms, andshe laid her shoulder against his. 

"Lawrence, " she said thoughtfully, "isn't it strange how little we knowourselves when we think we know most?"

"Yes, I sometimes think we are nearer folly then than at any othertime. "

"Do you know what I have been thinking to-day?"

"No. But I know what I have been thinking. " He drew her tight, laughing. "I have thought of you, always you, my wife to be. "

She patted his hand tenderly. 

"I can scarcely wait till we get out, Claire. "

"I know, dear. "

They listened to the purling of the stream and dreamed. 

Days followed in uneventful sequence. Each brought them nearer to therailroad, towns, and escape. Lawrence was freely merry. At times Clairewas caught in his gaiety, but more and more often he noticed that shewas quiet. He attributed her silences at first to the charming strain ofdiffidence he had learned to know as part of this woman, but graduallyhe grew fearful lest all was not well. 

"If she wants me to know, she will tell me, " he thought. 

She seemed to divine what he was thinking, but she did not speak. Shewanted to be sure of herself before she said anything. Lawrence's wordscame again and again, and each time they brought with them a strongerfeeling that there was yet one thing they must do. This feelingincreased as they neared the town toward which they journeyed. The nightcame when they were more than ever silent. 

"To-morrow, " Lawrence said at last. "To-morrow we reach civilization. Oh, Claire, Claire, with civilization come you, home, our real life!"

She moved uneasily. There was a sudden overwhelming sense of her need, and she resolved to tell him everything. 

"Lawrence, " she began, "to-morrow we do reach civilization, and I--I amfinding out things about myself. "

He knew she was going to tell him what troubled her. For an instant hewas filled with terror lest she say she could not love him after all. Perhaps his fight with Philip had sickened her, killed her love. Tenseand fearful, he waited. 

"Go on, Claire. I have noticed something. "

"It isn't that I don't love you, " she cried, seeing his fear in hisdrawn face. "Oh, I do love you!"

He laughed with relief. 

"Then speak away. Nothing else in the world can frighten me. "

"I'm afraid that it will displease you. "

"Not if it is something real to you. "

"Well then--oh, it seems so hard to explain. I--I am finding myselfout. "

"That ought to be pleasant. "

"Yes, it is--yet, I don't know--you see, back there in the wilderness Ithought nothing mattered but you. It was so hard and uncertain. Thefuture was so far off. But now it's different. Every day I have nearedcivilization I have grown less sure that our way is the right way. "

"Why not? It all seems clear to me. "

"But, Lawrence, are we quite fair? Are we quite right with ourselves?"

"I try to be. I certainly try to be fair to you. "

"I know. That's it. You would want me to be fair to--to every one, wouldn't you, and above all, to myself?"

"You must be that, Claire. "

She did not continue at once. He waited, holding her hand very tightbetween his own. 

"Go on, Claire. "

The deep earnestness of the faith in her that rang through his wordsgave her courage. 

"It is Howard and--and my vows to him. "

Lawrence sat, his brows knit. She watched him. 

"I see, " he answered. "I see, but--"

"After all, I promised to be his wife forever, you know. "

"But you don't love him now. "

"No. I love you--and for your sake as well as my own I've got tostraighten things out between Howard and myself. "

"I thought they were straight. He thinks you are dead. "

"But I know that I'm not dead, and all my life I would know that I hadbeen unfair to myself as well as to him. I must go and get things rightbefore--before I marry you. "

Her voice dropped and lingered caressingly yet with gracious reverenceover these last words, as one's does in speaking of holy things. 

"I see, " he said. Her tone told him more than her words. 

"I think you do. "

"Yes, I do. But when did you begin thinking of this?"

"When you said, 'Human beings think many things they don't and can'tdo. '"

"I understand. " He threw back his head. 

"You see, dearest, it is that everything in our lives may be clean. "

"Good enough, Claire. " He was hearty in his agreement. To his alert mindthe problem seemed very clear. 

"Yes, " he went on, "you are right. It isn't going to be easy. It willhurt him to have you tell him that you no longer love him, but I supposeit can't be helped, and it is best. "

"I knew you would say so. " Her cry was full of relief. 

"To-morrow morning we'll start early, " he laughed. "Noon will get us tothe railroad if Ortez was right about distances, and then--home and thelast clearing-up before we start life. "

The matter was settled. Claire lay down in her blankets happily. She didnot sleep at once, however. Gazing through the fire, she let her eyesrest tenderly on the strong face of the sleeping man opposite. She hadseen much of him, and always he was fair, just, and she loved him. Hereyes filled with tears as she thought of the suffering she must causeher husband, yet it was right and she could do no less. She would tellhim everything. He was big and he would understand. Since her wholenature, primal and spiritual, cried out that Lawrence was her mate, Howard would free her. She fell asleep sure that everything would workout right, and then--life and love, as Lawrence said with that exuberantlift in his voice. 

At noon of the next day they stopped on the brow of a high hill. 

"Lawrence, " Claire cried exultantly. "It is there--below us--a town!"

"Hurrah!"

They laughed like children who had discovered a long-sought treasure, then hand-in-hand as they had walked so far, they dropped down the steepslope and into a quaint mining village. 

The sound of men, the scent of smoke, and above all, the clang and puffof a locomotive, sent their blood racing. Too happy to speak, they ranalong the street scarcely noticing the people, and found the station. 

That night they were speeding toward the coast, and a few days laterfound them northward-bound on a liner. 

It was decided that Lawrence should not go with her to her home. Hewould wait in San Francisco till she had seen her husband and was free. They parted with eager yet hesitating hearts in that city. Claire foundit harder than she had imagined to go alone, but her will was master andshe did not falter. To Lawrence, waiting for word from her, time wasdead and moved not at all. 

When Claire arrived, the old familiar city seemed strangely desolate. She found herself wondering with a little flush of shame how she couldhave loved it so. Then came her testing time. She had arrived late atnight and gone to a hotel. No one had noticed her. The next morning asshe went into the breakfast-room, some one rose hastily, with anexclamation. It was her husband's business partner. 

How she ever got through her own explanations she did not know, then sheheard him speaking. 

"Yes, Mrs. Barkley, we had given you up for lost with the others on thatfated ship. And I cannot express my regret at the sorrow you havereturned to meet. "

"I--sorrow--why?" She stared at him wonderingly. 

He looked surprised, then understood. Claire listened silently to hisbrief, sincere sympathy as he told her how her husband had died duringthe winter of pneumonia. 

"It has been nearly six months now, " he finished, "and, of course, I amvery sorry for you. If I can do anything to help you, don't hesitate tocall on me, please. "

"Thank you. I--I won't. "

She heard her own voice change. Stifled, she fled up-stairs. 

Her grief was sincere, unshaded by any selfish thought that it made herown course easier or more justifiable in the eyes of society. To her, Howard Barkley's death changed nothing save that the man whom she hadonce loved sincerely was now no more. 

But the living remained, and to the call of the living her life washenceforth joyfully dedicated. 

(The end. )

[Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors present in theoriginal edition have been corrected. ]

In Chapter V, "tenements she had visted in her charity work" was changedto "tenements she had visited in her charity work". 

In Chapter VII, a missing quotation mark was added after "What, indeed, is moral law?"

In Chapter IX, "disdiscover what she was" was changed to "discover whatshe was". 

In Chapter X, "Disliking him as he did" was changed to "Disliking him asshe did". 

In Chapter XI, "as abnormal as her depondency had been before" waschanged to "as abnormal as her despondency had been before". 

In Chapter XVIII, "I promise to an emotionless judge" was changed to "Ipromise to be an emotionless judge", and "harded and harder to wait" waschanged to "harder and harder to wait". 

In Chapter XX, "clearly defined discusion" was changed to "clearlydefined discussion", and "the overwelming appreciation of beauty innature" was changed to "the overwhelming appreciation of beauty innature". 

[Transcriber's Note: The following summary originally appeared at thebeginning of the serial's second installment. ]

PRECEDING CHAPTERS BRIEFLY RETOLD

When the City of Panama foundered off the coast of Chile, LawrenceGordon suddenly realized he had been left, in the frenzy of thedisaster, alone on the deck. 

Then, before he had fully recovered from the lash of the wind and theviolence of the waves, he was swept overboard and into the seethingmaelstrom of an angry sea. 

As he came up from the depths he struck a heavy timber, and with thestrength of desperation he dragged his weight up on it and clung fast. 

"Land may be in sight, " was his thought, "and I shall never know!"Lawrence Gordon was blind. 

Hours had passed. The wind-lashed water beat him as he lay on thetimber. Fear and the cold drove him to rave at life and death alike. Finally, over the roar of the wind, he caught the tumbling of breakers. His plank was spun round, the swell lifted him from his position, andthe next breaker rolled him past the water-line. 

Once with the feel of the sand beneath his feet he ran until a rockcaught him above the knees and sent him headlong. 

When he regained consciousness he returned to the water to hunt forclams. As he came ashore again he tripped over an object that oninvestigation proved a woman. 

Claire Barkley answered to his ministrations, and recognized the blindman she had observed on the boat. She could furnish the eyes for aninvestigation of their situation inland, but her ankle had been sprainedin the wreck and she was unable to walk. 

When months after, just as they had reached the limit of humanendurance--what with hunger, the cold, and privation--they stumbled intothe cabin of Philip Ortez. The Spanish mountaineer declared it no lessthan a miracle that a blind man should have carried a woman in his armshalf across the Andes--from the coast to the borders of Bolivia. 

Then they settled down to spend the winter in Philip's cabin. And nowthe latent antagonism of the woman, who was so curiously stirred by theapparent coldness of this blind sculptor to her charm, began to plan theman's punishment. 

[Transcriber's Note: The following summary originally appeared at thebeginning of the serial's third installment. The summary at thebeginning of the serial's fourth installment, if one was present, wasnot available when preparing this electronic edition. ]

PRECEDING CHAPTERS BRIEFLY RETOLD

When Lawrence Gordon, numb with cold and hunger, after weeks of wearywandering through the mountains in a desperate effort to find ahabitation, came in sight of the mountaineer's little cabin, he droppedthe woman from his breaking arms and fell, exhausted and unconscious, inthe snow. 

Flung into the sea when the ship foundered, he had eventually found hisway to the beach, and here he stumbled on the unconscious form of ClaireBarkley. 

Mrs. Barkley's ankle had been sprained in the wreck and she was unableto walk. The man was strong, dominant, and unafraid; but he was blind. 

Carrying the woman in his arms the blind man had stumbled half acrossthe Andes, for the boat was wrecked off the coast of Chile, and PhilipOrtez, whose cabin they had reached, declared they were on the bordersof Bolivia, about two hundred miles from the nearest railroad station. 

This Spanish scholar, gentleman, and recluse readily welcomed two suchpromising guests for the winter. A charming woman of twenty-six, with amind as well as emotions, and a man not much older, who was both aphilosopher and an artist, promised no end of diversion for the winter. 

And diversion, not to say, drama, came--the eternal triangle. 

Lawrence was slow in admitting his love for Claire, even to himself. AndClaire, who was affronted by the seeming cold and calculatingindifference of this big, blind god, suddenly realized his apparentcoldness held the very heart of passion itself. 

In the playful scramble of a snow-fight before the cabin, Lawrence hadtaken her by the waist to wash her face with snow, and the contact ofher tightly held body betrayed the tensity of the man's feeling. Clairebroke from his grasp to look into the eyes of Philip, who had stood inthe doorway to watch the fun. In the eyes of the Spaniard she detectedthe emotion she felt in the touch of the blind sculptor. 

The next day, to relieve the suppressed passion in her own as well asLawrence's soul, she proposed to go with Philip, as she sometimes did, when he went out to spend the day with his traps. 

On the return journey, when the conversation was fast drifting into thepersonal, Philip, carried off his feet by the nearness of the woman andthe madness in his blood, snatched Claire up in his arms and covered herfull lips with his kisses. 

The indignant woman brought him to an abject apology after his wildconfession of love, and entered into a compact of friendship with him. 

Reaching the cabin, the blind man, whose acute soul and senses had longtold him of Philip's passion, held out the finished carving he had beenat work on all these weeks--a winged cherub. 

In his eyes it was the symbol of his love for her. But her words ofacceptance made him think in her eyes it was rather a symbol of her lovefor the mountaineer. 

To Philip it was a symbol of hope.